Blinded By Grace
by JustAnotherNinetiesBitch
Summary: Parallel universe, season 32. Chapter titles reference episode numbers for timeline.
1. Prologue: Episode Seventeen

_"_ _When she first mentioned what's about to happen, I said 'over my dead body' and she said, 'no, Sam, over mine. And, as usual, my darling girl and Grace's darling mum was right. So, she's going to say her final farewell to you. Not through me, but inevitably, ever so cooly, through the immortal genius of the Bay City Rollers."_

Slowly, but surely, Sam Strachan traversed into a parallel universe as the Bay City Rollers commenced the funeral finale. 'Bye Bye Baby' played bittersweet, while pictures of Connie flashed upon the screen from birth to death. Mourners reflected the wide smile so rarely witnessed from the Clinical Lead, as Charlie and Jacob led the male procession prepared to deliver Connie on her final journey down the aisle. The rare female influences in her life sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Grace. Audrey sat to her left, Duffy at the other side and Zoe reached forward to offer a supportive hand. The small child remained statue-like and very stoic, overwhelmed by the permanence of the trauma. Finally, her wide eyes lifted to meet her fathers and she cried out for him.

"Daddy?"

"Dad?"

"Dad." Grace impatiently shook her father harder when she attempted to wake him the third time. Confusion filtered from his expression, as he rose from his unintended slumber in front of the television and the final scene of 'Love Actually' played out. She rolled her eyes in her juvenile, characteristic manner, "You fell asleep." He had missed the majority of the film, and Grace had emptied the bowl of sweet popcorn.

"Oh, sorry…" Sam fully reentered consciousness and scratched at his itchy stubble.

In actual fact, Grace had become accustomed to such behaviour from a parent. "At least _you_ didn't fall asleep in the cinema." It was fortunate her mother had pre-empted the possibility and selected the seats at the very back of the theatre.

"Yes," Sam muttered, somewhat amused at the vision of Connie dead-to-the-world and just about to drool into the box of popcorn after a manic shift at the hospital. To their child, on the other hand, it was more proof that she remained second-in-priority to her mothers insatiable ambition. It only served to confirm Sam had been righteous in his decision to return Grace to America. Yet, _why_ his mind had suddenly become consumed by the mother of his child alluded him. Guilt was far from an option, and he refused to believe he and Connie were connected on any spiritual level, but Sam decided it best to cover all bases before he dismissed it. "When _was_ the last time your mother called, Gracie?"

Grace had already hopped off the sofa, in search of the remote for her next Netflix choice. Any conversation that involved her mother threatened to ruin the peace with her father, "Last week." She hunched her shoulders, defensive of the fact that she wasn't entirely sure and didn't particularly care. She pondered why her father would, "Why?"

The suspicion in her tone caused Sam to shake his head, nonchalantly - a little too nonchalantly for Grace to deceived. "She is your mum," Sam replied softly, and the implied accusatory tone distracted any curiosity from Grace. "She probably misses you." Guilt-tripped, Grace bowed her head and attempted to recall the last time she and her mother had phoned, or FaceTimed. Sometimes, life in the States seemed so effortless and tranquil that there were times when Grace truly failed to entertain memory of her mother and the life she led in the U.K. Still, her mother sent a weekly email to check-in with Grace and Grace replied, if and when she had the time. It may have been subconscious malice toward her mother for all the times Grace had fallen second in priority to work. "Why don't you call her?"

"Okay," Grace promised, half-heartedly while she selected 'Dr Seuss How the Grinch Stole Christmas' from Netflix.

Her father offered forward his smartphone, "No time like the present."

Reluctantly, Grace followed orders and dialled the number saved under her mothers name. "She won't pick up," she stated, all too aware of her parents' innate dislike for one another; Sam predicted the same result, and searched for her phone instead.

"Try from yours," Sam pleaded, when the first call immediately directed to voicemail. The second time around, the tone sounded as if Connie would answer at any moment but it cut-off at thirty seconds to voicemail. Irritated by her fathers insistence, Grace tucked her smartphone into her pocket. The pre-teen returned her attention to the Christmas film and Sam slumped back into the sofa, shaken by how _real_ it had all seemed; he could almost smell the hardwood of the coffin that contained Connie.

The dream, or vision, whatever it had been, had disturbed him. He leapt to his feet and raced to the home phone, where he dialled the number for Connie both at home and her personal mobile but he hesitated to contact her at work. She despised any interruption, and his phone-call would be viewed as an unconscionable waste of her valuable time. "Dad," Grace scowled, at the unexplained disturbance.

"Hold on, Gracie."

In the months since he had whisked Grace back to America - without consent from or consideration for Connie - Sam had been choked up with an uneasy nervousness that bounced around inside him. He had been prepared for a retaliation comparable to emotional whiplash but Connie had simply let it slide. She wished Grace well on her return to school, sent presents, liked Facebook pictures. He had received the odd threat via voicemail but none since September and certainly no anticipated lawsuit for custody of their child. It was extremely un-Beauchamp, and Sam kicked himself that he had failed to question her reaction, or lack of, before.

"I promise to email her tomorrow, okay?" Grace consoled him as he returned to the sofa, still unsettled.

Sam smiled and stretched an arm to rest on the back of the cushion. He tried and failed to interest himself in the Christmas film, the impish character of Jim Carrey dressed in the Grinch suit did little to divert his mind from Connie.

Fifteen minutes into the film Grace had selected, the office number for Henrik Hanssen flashed upon the screen of his iPhone. He answered the call in the privacy of the kitchen, out of earshot from Grace. To his surprise, it was a female voice that Sam assumed was the Chief Executive Officers personal assistant, "Mr. Strachan, I have some sad news in reference to Mrs. Beauchamp."


	2. Episode One

Any ordinary Thursday eve, Charlie Fairhead would have been curled up in his favourite armchair with an old book. It was the one day of the week he was almost always approved to be home by 6pm. This particular one, his drive home from the hospital required a diversion to the home of his Clinical Lead. Her behaviour in the recent week had been somewhat mercurial, to say the least.

Inside the stately home, Connie propelled her smartphone into the nearest wall. It was the second time the iPhone had endured the brunt of her wrath after she shattered the screen in her office. The chime of the doorbell fractured her despondent reverie and she opened the door to the welcome vision of her dearest friend. "Hi, Connie." His hands were tucked in his trouser pocket, and his lips formed a clumsy smile.

"Charlie, what can I do for you?"

"Actually it's what I can do for you," he pointedly corrected her with his response. When she swayed, unbalanced-like on two feet planted firm to the wooden floorboard, it was confirmation for Charlie that she needed a friend. "I talked to Hanssen." It had been pure chance that Charlie had bumped into the C.E.O. when he clocked off shift, and he was thankful to. The email that announced the loss of Mr. Strachan had failed to denote exactly which pastures he had moved onto. "He said Sam moved back to New York, and I can only presume Grace went with him?" Even at the entrance, there was an unnatural peacefulness that radiated from within the house and disclosed the absence of small children. Her shoulders were deflated and Connie offered a muted welcome inside. "I wondered if maybe you could use the company," Charlie explained his presence as he followed her into the pristine kitchen.

A half-empty bottle of white wine sat on the black marble counter and another lay in wait. Connie cracked the bottle open and poured herself a charitable refill, while Charlie remained patiently silent. His endless patience irked Connie, not to mention his capacity for compassion, and naturally empathetic aura. "He flew Grace back to the States last week."

Her words almost scrunched into one, uttered between clenched teeth. Charlie heavily exhaled, "Oh, Connie."

The pity in those two words alone were like needles to her skin, and Connie immediately bristled at the sound of them. She curled her hand around the Chardonnay bottle and dared it to shatter underneath her touch. "She thinks it was my idea, to send her back to America. I talked to her yesterday afternoon," Connie carefully traced the cut in her palm hidden by the plaster Ethan had administered in the privacy of her office. "You should have seen how happy she was, Charlie."

Her tears of defeat matched the waver of her words and Charlie leaned forward, both hands on the kitchen island. "Have you spoken to Sam?"

Connie shook her head, and wiped the tears from her cheek with the chuckle of a cynic. "He declined all my calls." Nine missed calls and five foul-mouthed voicemails were evidence that Sam Strachan had little intention of compromise and was prepared to evade her for quite some time. Probably for the best, since Connie was furious to the point that she wished hellfire upon him. The more she dwelled on it, the more resentment stirred inside of her and the more she felt compelled to counter his malevolent act. The perpetual effect on Grace, however, determined that retribution was not an option for Connie, and Sam must have known that. "Damn him."

The sudden departure of Grace didn't sit well with Charlie. The last time the eleven year old relocated to America, Connie had all but fallen apart and he feared her renewed absence would have a similar effect. "What can I do for you?"

"Charlie, please, I don't need you to fuss over me."

"No, Connie, come on, I want to do whatever I can to help. Why don't you have dinner with Duffy and me?" He extended a kind invitation, "We just had the kitchen redone and Duffy loves to play hostess, so it would be more for her than you." Charlie played it down as best he could, to relieve the pressure on Connie. The temptation would have been hard to resist, if Connie wasn't a solitary soul.

"No, it's the one day of the week you and Duffy have to enjoy yourselves at home like any other married couple." She refused, more insistent than him, and Charlie internally clicked that Connie had memorised the staff rota. It was her dedication to Holby City Hospital that had landed her in the predicament of her only child halfway across the world, and still, she didn't relent in her efforts to refine the department to its absolute best outcome. With her at the helm, Charlie had the utmost confidence that the E.D. would maintain and sustain world-class success, whether Connie comprehended the personal cost or not. "Charlie, please. Do I look like I need a babysitter?"

His eyes travelled to the second bottle of wine that called to any lonely spirit, "Well -"

Connie pre-empted his internal monologue and snatched the bottle from the counter-top, and abruptly thrusted it into his hands. "Go home to your wife. Take that with you. Enjoy yourselves and I shall see you both at work," Connie steered him back toward the foyer of the house.

"Listen," Charlie hesitantly allowed Connie to escort him from her home. "Only if you are absolutely positive?" He was moderately appeased that she had voluntarily disposed of what appeared to be the only other source of alcohol in her home, with the exception of the bottle she had half-imbibed prior to his unexpected drop-in.

"One hundred percent."

He had little time to dispute the matter as Connie physically displaced him from her house. "Okay then, I suppose I'll see you at work."

Finally able to shut the door on any further inquisition, the relief flooded her brain as she was left alone once more to drown out the silence. She poured the final remnants from the only wine bottle reserved and retreated into the front room to retrieve her iPhone. Its screen was still smashed, and Connie noticed further destruction caused to it as she searched for the latest text received from Grace.

 _Dad promised Christmas in Aspen, the three of us? Oh, and Simba, of course! Love you x_

It required every ounce of willpower not to return the text with the truth of her impulsive return to America. That Sam had played her with such ease and promoted himself onto the pedestal of a martyr in the eyes of Grace infuriated Connie. Her hopes were in the sky for that perfectly imperfect family of three Sam promised, only for her dreams to be dashed. Their exodus without so much as a farewell, or adieu had destroyed the source of happiness in her life.

Fury burned her heart, more harsh than the alcohol in her throat and Connie scrolled down the recent contacts for her ex. He would certainly decline another call, so she didn't bother to mentally calculate the time difference as she dialled. Predictably, Connie dropped her sixth voicemail into his mailbox. "Sam, you have twenty-four hours to call me back or you hear from my lawyer within the week. Game over. Do you understand?"

It was her last ditch effort to communicate with the father of her child, and she prayed he would fail to see it for what it was - an empty threat.


	3. Episode Three

There was a moment, however brief it may have been, that Connie could have sworn Ethan was ready to jump from the rooftop. Red and swollen eyes betrayed a pain deeper than the loss of his elder brother, Cal. The clues were visible, for anyone who cared to notice.

"Cubicles until the end of your shift, understood?" It was the one instruction every doctor in the E.D. did their best to avoid but, possibly for the first time, Ethan was thankful Mrs. Beauchamp had appointed him to the low-level patients for the rest of the afternoon. Nevertheless, he was mentally disoriented by her failure to read his confession. He had emotionally prepared himself to be handcuffed and led away from the hospital for the last time. He didn't know whether he could continue with life as normal, let alone whether he should.

Each of them held one eye to the other for the remainder of his shift. "Mrs. Beauchamp -"

Any time he approached, Connie became fearful he would venture verbal confession and dismissively retreated into her office. "Sorry, Dr. Hardy, I am inundated with paperwork at the moment." It was a half-truth but ample justification to remain undisturbed.

With the blinds stretched down, Connie retrieved the letter from her desk-drawer and re-read it. The words written transformed her into an accomplice of murder should she continue her pretence. Yet, that was what concerned her least of all, as she perused the admission. It offered a haunted reminder of her own experience within the criminal justice system. In the wake of Alfred's death, her life had spiralled out of control; her stint behind bars had been the nearest human ordeal to hell on earth she had experienced, and Connie doubted the likes of Ethan Hardy had the fortitude to withstand a trial and, furthermore, the inevitable conviction.

The next few hours flew by and, eventually, Elle beckoned for her assistance with an RTC that involved seven major casualties, three of them infants under five. Connie hardened her outer shell of steel professionalism and bolted to receive the handover from Iain for the smallest victim.

"This little one is Amelia, two years old. She was in the backseat of a car hit head-on and her safety seat was thrown from the vehicle."

"What happened to her seatbelt?" Robyn demanded, horrified and furious that the parents had appeared to have failed in the simplest task. Connie flashed the nurse her trademark cautionary look that advised her not to become emotionally attached to the patient scenario. Still, it had been only a week since Charlotte had been admitted and, for that, Connie cut her some slack.

"Potentially broken on impact," Jez interjected, while Iain rattled off the relevant handover statistics for Connie to administer treatment.

Within the time constraint set by the Trust, Connie and the team had successfully preserved the lives of all seven casualties and transferred them up to the relevant wards for continued care. The positive outcome lifted her mood but the vision of a dejected Ethan alone in the staff room served a reminder of the turmoil that threatened to undermine the departmental success. In an ordinary circumstance, Connie would have maintained every ounce of rectitude and merely observed the private lives of her staff from a distance but Ethan Hardy was desolate.

"Dr. Hardy, I -"

Connie entered the staff room with the best of intention, which was squandered by a hurricane of nausea that hurled her into the nearest ladies toilet. There was a momentary pause before Ethan clicked into action and followed the trail of devastation left in her wake. "Sorry, Max," he excused Connie for the hefty trolly of equipment she had slammed into and scattered across the floor of reception.

Ethan warily knocked, "Mrs. Beauchamp?"

Waves of acute sickness were common occurrence for Connie, of late. Her mind had been an unfriendly companion to her body, since the loss of Grace. The stress had rendered her a perpetual insomniac with stomach ache but the queasiness failed to pass. "Just a minute," Connie heaved her body from her knees to her feet, with the assistance of the toilet and flushed away the contents of her stomach. She cleansed her palette with a palmful of water and wiped away the excess with the back of her hand. When she reappeared, her pallor startled Ethan but her no-nonsense attitude silenced him into submission. "Dr. Hardy, did you mean what you wrote in that letter?"

It was time for the blood to drain from his face, too. "P-Pardon me?"

His mind raced a mile-a-second and Connie could almost hear his brain tick. It appeared as if he were ready to run for the hills but the adrenaline kicked in and he remained rooted to the spot. "The letter you wrote to terminate your contract," she prompted him, her facade of blissful oblivion at its best and Ethan exhaled with relief. "Perhaps, I was too hasty earlier? If you feel you need the break -"

"No," Ethan cut her off, and immediately realised he had done the unthinkable when he interrupted her mid-sentence. "I was the hasty one."

"Good. Good," Connie smiled in pleasant surprise. "Back to work, then." He quickly scampered away from the nurses station and Connie watched him vanish from her line of vision. She mentally noted that Ethan would require someone to watch over him for a while. If it weren't such a heavy burden, she would have confided in Charlie to share the load. His broad shoulders seemed able to brace any storm that battered him and he was unequivocally loyal. He had been an emotional anchor at the time of her own criminal trial.

Connie deciphered that what Ethan needed was a distraction to silence the disturbance in his mind. After all, her impromptu trip to Romania beside Charlie had done exactly that after her release. The time in prison had pulverised her spirit, on top of Alfred's death, and the first time Grace left for America. It all built up and culminated in a foolish, vulnerable moment with Alex. Her heart pumped five-times faster when she linked the previous experience to her current circumstance. Back on British soil, Connie skipped a period and ever-so-briefly entertained the possibility that she was with child. Similar symptoms she experienced more recently had been rationalised away as anxiety and the flu, even potentially the onset of menopause. She opened the app on her phone that monitored her menstrual cycle and a visit from mother nature was well overdue.

"Oh, Mrs. Beauchamp. Transfer paperwork for Amelia Stevenson," Robyn requested her seal of approval to have the infant Connie had earlier treated to another ward. It was yet another hint from the universe that Connie should pay deeper attention to her symptoms.

At home, after an extensive shift, Connie unwrapped the Clear Blue kit she had purchased from the pharmacy near her home. The stop-off on the way home had been worth the effort; she would be easily identified in the hospital pharmacy and become the latest source of staffroom chitchat. At any rate, it was next to impossible that the result would be positive. One moment of insanity with Sam Strachan may have worked once but the likelihood of a second time was next to none.


	4. Episode Four

"You should be able to read at least two chapters, in that time. Three, if you put your mind to it."

Bewildered, Ethan clutched the book Connie had provided him with, as she departed the office. There had been a definitive difference in the way she approached him. Of course, it wasn't in front of the rest of the team but, in the privacy of her office, she was almost _maternal_ in the way she conversed. If he weren't so in awe, and possibly even a little bit lovestruck, his paranoia would have been at red-alert. She had even purchased his lunch for him, even if it was a quinoa fruit pot.

Connie, meanwhile, shrewdly strode away from the department, confident that the distraction of his consultancy exams would preoccupy Ethan, for the foreseeable future. At least, until she had handled her own pickle. In the very back of her mind, 'pickle' was an appropriate nickname for the bundle of trouble inside. Deviously, Connie followed an alternative exit route from the hospital to ensure her leave was unnoticed. As far as the team were concerned, she had an unbreakable appointment with the powers upstairs and that allowed her all the time she required. Within fifteen minutes, she arrived at the private clinic with a referral letter from her GP and a stomach full of unease.

"I have an appointment," Connie produced the letter and nervously tapped her manicured nail on the surface of the desk. "Mrs. Beauchamp."

The petite receptionist smiled broadly at Connie and entered the relevant data onto her computer screen. "Have a seat. One of our midwives will be with you, as soon as possible." The disconcerted expression Connie displayed informed the receptionist that she was not one of the typical, happily-married, already mother-of-two type women the clinic usually catered to. Left to her own devices while she waited, she restlessly scanned the clinic for a familiar face. Aside from the fact that the option of a home visit would be more convenient, Connie had allocated herself a private midwifery clinic in the interest of discretion. Any midwife at Holby City Hospital would have identified her simply by name, if not face, and the name Beauchamp had earned her very few brownie points over the years. It was an issue of trust, which Connie had little of in other people. Even the most skilled professionals fell prey to the constrictions of confidentiality every now and then.

It was her first scan, the date scan to be precise. Not that Connie needed to attend any such kind appointment to be informed of when her child had been conceived. The date was etched in her mind, it was the day she attended the therapy session with Grace and the day Grace finally let her back into her circle. It was the only possible time, which, unfortunately for Connie, meant there was only one father possible.

"Mrs. Beauchamp?"

Quicker than anticipated, Connie found herself on her back, her white blouse discarded and a cold substance squirted, then smoothed over her stomach by the midwife named Rhiannon. "Get nice and comfortable. This could take a while." Her Irish accent was an odd and unexpected comfort to Connie. She brushed the hand-held device across her stomach and focused on the black and white picture. "Is this your first time?" Absent-minded, Connie shook her head, as she too strained her neck to observe what kind of illustration the ultrasound produced. Given her stress level and subsequent alcohol consumption in the recent month, even before Grace left for America, it wouldn't have been a massive surprise to find the baby was slow on its development. "Girl or boy?"

"Girl," Connie quickly retorted, as her interest remained elsewhere.

Minimal pressure caused a moment of discomfort for Connie. "Here we have your little one." A white shape formed on the screen, a head two times the size of the body it was attached to and a heartbeat that pounded so intensely that Connie beamed with pride.

"Is the baby okay?"

"Healthy as a horse." The midwife declared, "The crown rump looks to be 2.3cm so I would say you're about 9 weeks or so. Does that sound likely to you?" It sounded more than likely to Connie. She nodded her head, and the midwife mentally calculated nine months ahead, "Which puts your due date at March 31st."

While the scan printed, Connie redressed and answered the questions thrown her way by the inquisitive midwife. "Now, I had a look at your notes and I can see it's been over ten years since your last child? Given that and the fact that you are over forty, you are at risk of a condition called pre-eclampsia. I would advise that you come back for a 12-week scan in a couple weeks time and that way I can prescribe you a low-dose of aspirin to reduce the likelihood that you should possibly develop the condition." All the information circled her brain and trickled back out, her intellectual system overworked. "We can also screen for Downs, Edwards and Patau syndrome at your next scan." It hadn't occurred to Connie that she and her baby could be at risk. She was already protective of her child, without a firm decision as to whether she really wanted to be a mother for the second time. "It's always nice to have someone else with you at that one. Is the baby's father involved?"

Connie became subdued, and shook her head, "No."

"How about a relative?" The midwife brushed over the fact that Connie would be a solitary parent. "Mother? Sister? _Friend_?"

"No, it will just be me." Connie contorted her lips and let the inevitable character-assassination bypass her radar for once.

The appointment itself lasted twenty-five minutes but Connie became so lost in the moment that it felt like an in-out, rushed five minutes. It had provided her with much to think about. There was documented risk to late-life motherhood, for both mother and child. She was a woman of close-to-perfect health but motherhood was a strenuous event. Antenatal would be equally as hard as postnatal and Connie couldn't envision the addition of a newborn in her daily routine. The work she had invested in most of her life demanded so much that Grace had fallen into second place. She didn't have the heart to do the same to another one of her children.

By the time she returned to the hospital, Connie had split herself even further down the middle. Typically, her primal nature searched for ways to escape the predicament and her mind fell to Ethan. What she needed was her very own project and Ethan Hardy was the perfect bait. No sane medical student would decline the extension of help from the esteemed Connie Beauchamp.


	5. Episode Five

"There is a process in place for a reason. Do you understand?"

Sam Nicholls raised an eyebrow, at the realisation that her heroic return to the E.D. wasn't all she hoped it would be. An ice cold shiver crawled down her spine, as the Clinical Lead stormed off, infuriated by her failure to follow set protocol.

Connie, meanwhile, prayed that nobody considered her foul mood out of the ordinary. An entire decade had elapsed since she had experienced motherhood in its earliest form, but she suffered the same malaise as she had with Grace. Sickness far later than the morn, endless dizziness that reduced her ability to exercise as often as she pleased, and breasts that ached with anticipation of a new mouth to feed. Worst of all were the hormones that inflamed her already notorious temper at work.

The metallic clip of her Louboutin heels clicked beyond the reception desk, and Noel had a five-second window to predict her disposition and dissect whether it would be prudent to thrust another problem in her face. Patience was one quality Mrs. Beauchamp was often in short supply of, at the best of times, and he had the instinct to see these were not the best.

"Josh," Connie corralled the senior member from ambulance control. "Keep an eye on the newest member of your team." To untrained ears, it may have sounded like a request, or friendly piece of advice but Josh was acutely aware that this particular Clinical Lead ruled the department with an iron fist. Her approach left him with an unease but her intentions were the purest, as Charlie consistently reminded him.

A serene nod of the head processed his prompt response, "Yes, Mrs. Beauchamp."

She spirited away to the cafeteria, and purchased another daily snack. Small, frequent meals reduced the unfavourable side effects of the first trimester and ensured healthy development. It was the unconscious allowances that she made to her daily routine which blessed Connie with the culmination that she did, in fact, intend to keep her unborn child. There had been no mental deliberation on her part, it was simply the natural choice. Any question as to _how_ she would shuffle her life around to accommodate a newborn child was the furthest from her mind. Involuntarily, Connie was rather enthused, irrespective of the dilemma it created with Sam for the second time. In seven years, she would have been home-free of him, with Grace as an adult, but the new life inside her forecast a different future.

At approximately ten weeks, her unborn child was the size of kumquat, or so she had been informed by her midwife. The leaflet that accompanied the ultrasound scan had been most informative but one aspect troubled her most. Expectant mothers were advised to rely on support from family members and friends, particularly in the first trimester, but, for Connie, there were very few available. As much as she loved Charlie - and that love extended to his wife, Duffy, too - Connie was wary of the rumour mill that worked its way around the hospital. It would be unintentional but Charlie would let slip the secret, simply by that extra care he coveted her with, and Connie was far from prepared for the entire E.D. to be hit with the prospect of baby Beauchamp no.2.

Her point was proven when Iain and Lily wandered by hand-in-hand; only the previous week Connie had received a tiresome email from Lily to disclose that they had entered into a committed relationship. Since then, the unmatched couple seemed to be the only topic of conversation, all hushed voices in hidden corners of the staff room. While they seated themselves in a quiet corner of the cafeteria, Connie opened her Facebook app and refreshed her timeline for an update on Grace. She tended to avoid social media at all cost, until it became the primary source of contact with her child. For that reason alone, Connie had even found herself with her own Twitter account.

"Hey, how's the little firecracker?"

Jacob lurched over her shoulder and cast his eyes upon the picture of Sam and Grace at the very top of the Empire State. "Oh, fine." Connie falsified a wide smile for what may as well have been the Spanish inquisition and liked the picture.

"Good," he beamed back, but his voice relayed his misconception. It had almost been as if Grace had vanished off the face of the earth and oh, so suddenly, too. The facade Connie presented at work was exactly that and Jacob would bet his life that, behind the scenes, she was devastated. Not that Connie would confide such heartache to him. The end to their relationship had obliterated any hope of friendship; the best they could hope for was to be cordial acquaintances at work. "See you back down there."

Her smile faded the moment Jacob disappeared from view, and Connie heaved with relief. With the exception of Charlie and Jacob, none of the staff dared to mention Grace in conversation, if they bothered to strike one with her in the first instance. Most likely because they were mindful of how important Grace was to Connie and, oddly, it disconcerted her that her achilles heel didn't remain a mystery anymore. Upon her arrival to the department, Connie Beauchamp had been untouchable and unattainable for most but three years of chaos had stripped away whatever superpowers she alluded to and revealed her to be a mere human.

The remainder of the days shift passed by fairly uneventful and it was one of the few times Connie was happy to head home. The promise of a new child seemed to warm her home from the coldness left by Grace.

Curled up on the sofa, Connie admired the ultrasound picture provided by her midwife from her first scan. It blew her mind that she would be mother to her second child in her fourth decade but motherhood later in life was not uncommon these days. "Hello, pickle." She sweetly thumbed the picture of the baby with one hand and planted the other one on a stomach that had yet to swell with pride.

Her open MacBook beeped with the announcement of an email and Connie clicked the Mail app. A confirmation email for the purchase of a chalet in Aspen rented for the Christmas holiday season had been forwarded by Grace with a childish plea for her mother to accompany them. It was a little over three months away and her condition would surely be obvious by that time. Still, Connie was not in the business of disappointment, especially when it concerned Grace and she typed an enthusiastic response to the invite. How she would handle the matter of disclosure was a concern for a later date. She had resolved to live in the present, and relish the precious point in her life.


	6. Episode Seven

With every day that passed, it dawned on Connie that the time was near for the father to be informed. It opposed her severe dislike of Sam, and did little to ease the animosity after he had done the unthinkable but Connie refused to play tit-for-tat with their children.

An anomalous 'quiet' period in the department allowed Connie to resume her daily sweep of the floor as part of her very own quality check. Freshers week chaos had descended upon the hospital, the department was burdened by an extensive number of alcohol-influenced incidents and the reception area had been seized by a mass of incoherence. Her eyes, however, were transfixed to her iPhone and the Facebook status Grace had been linked into. Her heart cascaded into her stomach when she read the family announcement accompanied by an adorably picture-perfect post of Sam, Grace _and_ Emma. Seventy-four people had liked the status with comments of best wishes and heart-eyed emojis but Connie hovered her thumb over the 'like' button.

"Go on then, spill the beans," Alicia playfully probed Elle for the dirty details of her flirtation with the relative of a patient.

"Did he show you his full fifty shades?" Louise parodied, as the consultant visibly blushed and buried her face behind a patient file.

Unaccustomed to the newfound interest in her private life, Elle rolled her eyes, "Sorry, ladies, but I don't kiss and tell." Her sentence was rendered incomplete by the raised eyebrows from the two females. "Besides, it was only the second date."

A million and one questions from Alicia and Louise were shut down by the sudden appearance of their Clinical Lead, who looked every bit unimpressed by their impromptu break. It was a deja-vu scenario for Elle and Alicia, who had already been exposed once for similar behaviours the previous week. Connie pinpointed her deputy for the verbal whip, once more. "Dr. Gardner, need I remind you that this is a place of work?" Her superior tone, filled with condescension was equally aimed to Alicia, and the Geordie doctor swiftly moved away from the scene of the crime. "If we should have so much as one patient breach while you are on-shift, I will hold you personally responsible."

Embarrassed by her lapse in professionalism, Elle clenched her fist, "Yes, Mrs. Beauchamp."

Her show of remorse was a thankless task, for Connie had already lost interest and withdrawn into her office. Jacob chuckled, "Nice one, pancake." Rarely ever deterred by Connie and her sour mood, he knocked and waltzed into her office. "Got a minute?"

"Apparently so," Connie snapped, irritated and slumped dejectedly in her seat.

"You okay?"

She mutedly offered forward the iPhone she had carelessly tossed onto her desk. The screen remained unlocked and Jacob scanned over the source of her upset. "Happy families, eh?" He haplessly remarked, and Connie flashed him a sneer that ridiculed the sentiment. The vision of Sam Strachan, a bachelor no more was nearly unthinkable. Nevertheless, the diamond rock Emma flashed in the picture of her left hand tied him into an eternal commitment. It cemented them into the perfect family of three. "How does Grace feel about it?"

"I haven't called her yet," Connie buried her head in her hands and heavily exhaled. There was little wonder Sam hadn't bothered to include Connie in his plans to move back to America. As far as Connie was concerned, Sam had planned it from the start.

"How do _you_ feel about it?"

Suddenly aware that she was under examination, Connie simulated indifference. "When it comes to Sam Strachan, my _only_ concern is Grace." It wasn't a lie. "She needs to be surrounded by people she can rely on for support. Not her fathers latest piece of skirt."

Jacob frowned, repulsed by her turn-of-phrase. "Connie -"

It had been a harsh statement, but Connie was furious at the realisation that Sam had been one-half of a committed relationship, even when he pursued her into the store cupboard. It made her feel cheap, and dared her to be ashamed of their unborn child. "No," she dismissed his contempt, "I am very busy, Staff Nurse Masters." As always, her shell hardened and she became untouchable. It was her jaded view that retracted him away from her but endeared her all the more. It was in his very nature to fix what he deemed as broken, and Connie Beauchamp was most certainly broken. Even so, the problem wasn't his to solve.

He reframed his posture and became taller with it, "Ethan needs a second opinion in cubicles."

"Fine." She followed him out the office, and continued the remainder of her shift with Sam in mind. He had moulded the family unit for Grace that Connie had failed to create. Nevertheless, with the issue of her envy pushed to one side, his new bride indicated that fatherhood for the third time would be a delicate issue for Sam. It was times like this that Connie resented her lack of female friendship, or maternal counsel to navigate the treacherous waters she had waded into. Her true confidante was Charlie but she presumed him unqualified, in this particular area of life.

Toward the end of her shift, Connie received a phone-call from Grace to confer on the recent revelation. She climbed into her Range Rover and connected the call to the handsfree system while she pulled away from the hospital car park. The entire way home, she listened wistfully to the details of dates and locations discussed for the nuptials; Grace was full of beans and oblivious to her mothers inattentive response. "Emma picked me to be her head bridesmaid. She even said I could choose the colour of the dress."

"That's wonderful, baby."

It wasn't until Connie had almost fulfilled her thirty minute journey home that Grace ran out of steam. "How's work?"

Connie pulled into the drive, "Oh, you know how it is there. They can never cope for five minutes without me around." Every ounce of her wanted to share her secret with Grace but a pertinent dread clamped her mouth shut. Grace adored Sam's fiancee, that much had been obvious since she was rushed to the hospital with Grace at her side. Connie couldn't risk the possibility that Grace would assume the worst, and think it was some kind of underhanded trick to destroy her fathers happiness out of spite.

"You will still visit for Christmas, won't you, mum?" Grace quizzed, and the hopefulness in her voice sent flutters up Connie's heart.

"Of course I will," she half-heartedly promised. Sam, his fiancee, Grace and an expectant Connie all harmoniously under the same roof for the holidays would be a Christmas miracle. An unlikely one, too. All hell was due to break loose and Connie could only pray Grace would deal with the latest family strife as maturely as she had with her decision to remain with Sam.


	7. Episode Eight

Whenever Connie psyched herself up to phone Sam, the universe supplied another credible remonstration that the majority of men weren't worth the air they breathed. They belittled and demeaned women every which way physically possible. The previous week, it had been the know-it-all adolescent, who had the audacity to question a mothers intentions; this particular shift, it was an obtuse husband unable to see beyond his own need, irrespective of the harm his insistence could cause.

"Why don't we ask your wife what she wants?"

The bearded, elderly man widened his eyes, horrified, as if it were the first time that concept had even entered his brain. In Connie's eyes, he was the typical male. His mind only worked to his own benefit. In fact, in her experience, men were almost always selfish to the very core.

The more irate the husband of her patient became, the more steadfast Connie remained that the best option was to make his wife comfortable. It went far beyond hospital resources, it was the damned look in her eye. Beneath the breathlessness and attempts to pander to his demand that she battle onward, Connie was convinced the elderly woman had little left. That much was apparent when she buckled under the emotional strain of him and relented, "It's okay, I'll do it. I'll have the treatment."

Connie beheld the couple in disbelief, as her patient reached for her husbands hand and his thunderous fury floated away onto an open sea of calm waters. In that bed was exactly the kind of woman Connie had envisioned her mother would have become. She, too, had split herself into pieces to appease the man she loved. His rules were law and she catered to his need before her own. No matter the cost to her physical or mental health, _he_ was her priority always and, if she ever failed to remember that, he would be damn sure she didn't a second time. The love Connie held for her father didn't overshadow the fact that he had been an enabler of the depression that riddled her mothers life. Youthful rebellion vowed that Connie would never permit any man to dominate her life.

"Start her on IV antibiotics. Lets increase the diuretic intravenously and try on a bi-pack mask." She half-heartedly rambled off a list of actions for Robyn to carry out, before she summoned Ethan outside. "Never question me in front of a patient like that. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mrs. Beauchamp," Ethan cowered from the Clinical Lead and returned to his duties.

The anxiousness in his face fuelled flames of remorse from Connie. Within the male-dominated world of medicine, Connie had acquired the unique ability to emasculate any man that dared step one foot out of line. Raised under her fathers fist, there was an innately primal fear that she would allow herself to be controlled the way her mother had, and it was _that_ which fed her cutthroat, ambitious nature. That nature had predictably left her view allies but also ensured her effeminate side didn't deflect from her expertise. It also meant that the few allies she was able to assemble had the tendency to be male. In medical school, it had been Michael; on Darwin, Elliott; and, in the E.D., it was Charlie Fairhead.

Connie burst into his office unannounced, and discovered him with Duffy and Alicia. "Sorry -"

"No. Come in." He had seen her bee-line for his office, and thanked whichever God had answered his prayer. Duffy and Alicia had finally fallen silent in their powers of persuasion and Charlie helplessly pleaded to Connie, "Save me."

"No, it's fine." She shyly resisted what her heart so desperately wanted to do, "I'll catch you later."

"Please, I just need the extra lesson to crack the hill start." As she wandered from his office, Connie heard Alicia persevere her request with Duffy to assist. She had no doubt he would submit in the end. He was too soft to ever refuse help to those in need. He was exactly the kind of man she needed but didn't quite deserve. Instead, men like Sam Strachan entered her orbit and her vibrancy attracted them like moths to a flame. They were enraptured by her coolness and independence and repelled by them at the same time. It was why she had yet to inform Sam of the new life they had created. He would, undoubtedly, be elated but furious that she had been so secretive; and his fury would propel his inherently masculine requisite to control the situation, which would only drive them further apart, until they spun themselves round in circles so much that the weakest one of them collapsed emotionally. This time around, Connie feared she would be the one to surrender first. In the role of parent, Sam exceeded expectations but he was far from the family man he claimed to be.

"Are you okay?" Later on that shift, Duffy pursued Connie from her twelfth toilet visit of the day and it was only 3pm. "You haven't quite been yourself lately." She followed up her question with the implication that she had been more than a casual observer of Connie. "You look like you need to share a burden." Duffy had the same aura of kindness as Charlie and it so nearly drew Connie in.

"Just disappointed, I suppose." Connie relied on her ability to formulate a lie and promptly tossed Duffy the bait she hunted. "Grace isn't able to fly over for her mid-term break, so I won't see her until Christmas."

"What a shame." Duffy exclaimed, not so easily fooled by the 'cool and collected' facade. She rested a hand on Connie's lower-arm and flashed the Clinical Lead a sympathetic smile. "You must miss her ever so much." Her very first day in Connie's E.D. had offered unique vision as to how much love Connie had for Grace. The memory of the day the helicopter crashed into the hospital was etched into her mind. "Is that all that's on your mind?" Duffy probed a little more. Her antennae were on red-alert and her suspicions were raised; all the symptoms were there, but Connie Beauchamp was a very hard woman to read. The bipolar moods and inconsistent body temperature, the headaches, the tiredness, the insatiable appetite and dizziness; there were two such possible causes so in contrast with the another that Duffy was torn. Menopause was the most likely scenario but a timid, yet instinctive voice wondered if Connie was in the family way a second time.

The temptation to spill her secret to Duffy was hard to deny but Connie contained herself, "Yes."

Intent on secrecy, Connie scurried away from the nurse. Meanwhile, Jacob rounded the corner and Duffy concentrated her efforts on him. He was the last man romantically involved with the Clinical Lead, which meant it was more than reasonable he be the one to have fathered her child; if there was indeed a child to have fathered in the first place. "Jacob," she beckoned him and discretely lowered her voice. "You haven't noticed any weird behaviours from Mrs. Beauchamp, lately, have you?"

"Weird behaviours?"

Duffy hunched her shoulders, careful not to drown her horse in the water she walked him to. "Yeah."

He simulated disinterest, as he had done whenever anyone happened to mention Connie in conversation. "She seems fine to me." It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for Connie to immerse herself in work, especially in the emotionally chaotic times of her private life. Without the anchor of Grace, she had the tendency to drift into unchartered waters.

"Keep an eye on her for me," Duffy winked, as if he had been specially selected to carry out her mission for a reason.


	8. Episode Ten

"Approach with caution. She's in a foul mood."

Fortunately for Alicia, Connie was exhausted to the point that her mind failed to produce a hostile retort. Instead, she pretended the comment went unheard and continued to stack the files she returned to the nurses station. As she did so, her eyes darted anxiously around the department. A petite bump had started to form, practically unnoticeable to anyone but Connie, yet it would only require one person to catch view of her body side-on and conspicuously poised for her secret to be revealed.

With respect to advice from Alicia, Ethan sidled up beside Connie. "Mrs. Beauchamp, would it be possible to resume the exam study some time this week?" A mere two-seconds-worth of hesitation from his senior snapped Ethan into a fumbled retraction, "Never mind. You probably have far better ways to spend your time -"

She rested a friendly hand to his arm, and shook her head. "Nonsense. Find me at the end of your shift." The offer provided him with a solace that only served to endear him further into her heart. As Connie had foreseen, the pressure of his consultancy exams had implemented a welcome distraction. It also accentuated his lack of familial support, particularly the maternal kind.

Connie circled a lap around the department, wary of the multiple staff dramatics that had occurred of late. Whereas Ethan had dived into his work, Lily had become stretched between her ambition and her offbeat relationship. Her sudden interest in pre-hospital treatment had undoubtedly allowed Lily to learn more about a certain paramedic than any patient experience. Irrespective of her considerable effort to establish Iain into her priorities, Connie remained unconvinced that Lily was truly invested in any kind of relationship. Like Connie in her early days of medicine, Lily possessed the holy trinity of intellect, physicality and effervescent youth; and Connie was near-certain that Lily would follow her drive for success to the ends of the universe with little care for any male.

At any rate, the carnal relations between Iain and Lily didn't trouble Connie quite so much as the surreptitious behaviour shown by David, Dylan and Louise. On any ordinary day, the names made up three of her most dependable staff members but the breach from social services had sent them all into a tailspin. Whatever covert operation they had concocted remained confidential, in spite of her effort to unearth the truth, and Connie was left with no choice but to accept their word on the matter at hand.

It also rendered her unsurprised to discover David in her office. "Nurse Hide, what can I do for you?"

"Ah, Mrs. Beauchamp," David played coolness well, even if his heartbeat had quickened its pace at the vision of his Clinical Lead. He held the brown envelope addressed to her behind his back and mumbled whatever words came first. "I didn't expect to find you here."

"This is _my_ office."

"Of course. I just meant -" he quivered, as her eyebrow arched. "Noel said you had an appointment scheduled with Mr. Hanssen at some point today and I wondered if it had any relation to the social services visit this week?" He clasped the envelope deposited by Dylan, which he correctly assumed was a letter to terminate his position at Holby City Hospital, with immediate effect.

Connie pursed her lips surreptitiously, "Uh, no. It's a personal matter to be discussed with Mr. Hanssen." Even that was more than Connie cared to disclose, and she swiftly turned the tide of the conversation back to him.

"Ah, I see."

"Nurse Hide," Connie clasped her hands and rested them on her desk; it was a definitive indication that what little patience she possessed had started to wear thin. He braced himself, "I do not like to waste my time." There was an obvious disclosure that needed to be made, still, Connie didn't think David would make one without pressure, so she softened her approach a little. "Should I be concerned for Dr. Keogh?"

His hesitation spoke volumes but David shook his head, "No, no… I don't believe so, Mrs. Beauchamp."

She exhaled a heavy breath, sustained by annoyance but mainly disappointment. "Well then, if that's all," Connie checked her watch for the time and motioned for David to leave. "Shut the door on your way out." He back-stepped out of her office, his mission successful, and Connie marvelled at the kind of characters employed in her department. Nurse Hide was undoubtedly the oddest of them all.

Shortly afterward, Connie vacated for Henrik Hanssen's office. The recent mishaps within the department served to justify her request and Connie was reasonably confident it would be authorised, provided the six foot swede retained an iota of common sense. As she climbed the stairs, an email from Grace beeped its arrival, and Connie opened the attachment of her first report card since her return to school, since she left for America, and since the crash. It was potentially the best Grace had ever received, Grade A for all subjects but Connie's private celebration was cut short when she spotted the name at the top of the report. She zoomed in for clear-cut confirmation; Grace Strachan. The 'Beauchamp' had been extracted, as quickly and severely as Connie had been from her life.

"Mrs. Beauchamp for you," the latest in a line of physically exquisite assistants escorted her into Hanssen's office.

"Hello, Mrs. Beauchamp." Henrik stood on ceremony for her entrance and intimated for her to sit in the leather chair opposite his own. "You look well," he complimented her radiance. For him, it was an attempt to appeal to her softer side - if she did, indeed, possess one - but, for Connie, it only raised her consciousness as to how her body had evolved in the recent month alone. Little did Connie perceive how terrified he always had been of her self-assurance and dominance in the workplace. Behind his blank-faced mask, he cowered in submission.

Connie dismissed the praise in her typically all-business approach, "This could have been written in an email but I wanted to inform you personally that as of mid-March next year, I will be on maternity leave and you will require a temporary replacement to act as Clinical Lead for the department." She slid the formal request and letter to accompany it across his desk. How bizarre that she had failed to inform Sam and Grace of the newest member to their family before him but, for whatever reason, it was easier to offload this particular truth to Henrik Hanssen than even the likes of Charlie.

Henrik slowly lowered his head, ever-serene, "I see."

There was a heaviness that had lifted from her shoulders, so much so that Connie was unaffected by his failure to offer well-wishes for her new child. It was the first time she had been able to verbalise her second chance at motherhood. "I would like to make a recommendation as to whom you should consider for the position."

"By all means," he prompted, filled with trepidation as to who Connie Beauchamp saw fit to fill her shoes in the interim period.

"Dr. Hanna," Connie put forward the name of a woman she not only respected, but trusted. If she could ascertain that the department would be in the best hands possible, while she extended her maternity leave to the maximum allowance, it would reduce her anxiety to none. Her initial instinct would have been Dylan, had it not been for his recent debacle with social services and the unidentified patient.

He was startled, to say the least. "I shall contact her within the week."

Satisfied with the outcome, Connie nodded her head and prepared to leave. "Thank you." Before she did so, she turned around and momentarily expressed the internal conflict that erupted in her mind. "I would appreciate it if we could keep this conversation between the two of us for the meantime." Henrik silently nodded in assurance. It was almost assured, anyway; the man was a stickler for confidentiality at all times.

"Certainly, Mrs. Beauchamp." Three words that ensured Connie could keep her bundle of joy firmly under wraps.


	9. Episode Twelve

"Did you have Grace christened?"

Mild panic seared itself onto her expression, momentarily until her outer layer cooled itself and the iciness stiffened back into place. In the briefest of brief seconds, Connie was convinced Robyn had rumbled her ruse. Why else would she have asked _that_?

Robyn retained her naturally-chirpy personality and let the poor reaction roll off her shoulders. "Story for another time."

It was just one of the habitual occurrences that rendered Connie impotent. There had been life inside of her for approximately four months and every day Connie was one step closer to the truth being revealed. Whether it be Noel and his humoured remark as to how often she snacked, or Alicia who complimented how radiant her skin looked and wanted to know her which skin cream she used, right down to the way Duffy curiously watched her from a distance during shift. Worst of all was Charlie with his unsolicited reassurance that she was a wonderful parent. She was unsure as to whether he meant to Grace, or the team; she certainly felt she had inadvertently assumed the role of mother to all of them.

The infant of the team, Rash, barrelled around the corner and slammed her into the nearest wall. "Mrs. Beauchamp, I am _so_ sorry!"

A pain ascended her spine as Connie rebalanced herself and controlled her heated ire. His mortification at yet another blunder on his part sent Rash sprinting to the nearest toilet before he could explain his hurriedness from his patient in cubicles. It hadn't escaped her notice that the very notion of failure induced nausea for the newbie. Just as Lily said, he was excitable and nervous; in fact, it was her protégés words that floated around her head as Connie maintained her composure and let another faux-pas slide. At this rate, she had little confidence the new F1 would ever surprise her the way Lily had predicted.

Connie wouldn't dare admit it, but she had missed Dr. Chao dearly in her absence. She was probably the most independent of the team, definitely the most reliable, and a reminder of easier times; she _was_ Connie back in the days before Grace.

"No, no, no, you can't just leave her here."

Robyn's panicked voice alerted Connie to the latest catastrophe and she strode to the nurse. "Robyn, what's the matter?"

 _That_ was all Robyn needed. She shielded her face in her hands, her stress evident when she snapped at the Clinical Lead, "It's fine." Staff who witnessed the moment fell fatally silent, before they continued on with duties and even Connie was dismayed. Instantly full of remorse, Robyn swallowed the knot in her throat. "Sorry, Mrs. Beauchamp. Just some issues with childcare but I can sort it." She scowled at the babysitter that had failed her many times before.

By this time, Connie had detected that the infant in the baby carrier the other woman held was Charlotte. "Is Charlotte okay?"

"Yeah, she'll be fine." Robyn recaptured her cheery disposition, and shepherded the helpless babysitter into the staff room to deliberate what would become of Charlotte until the end of shift. Raised voices informed Connie that this was not the first time the babysitter had let Robyn down and Max soon arrived to defend his female friend. Located at the nurses station, Connie watched the blonde dart out the exit, which left Max and Robyn to contemplate the next sensible course of action. "I can't just leave like that, Max. We're already two nurses down and it's not fair to call Charlie and Duffy to come in." The elder couple of the department were entitled to annual leave and it was the rarest of occurrences that they both had the same day off. "Plus, I already owe them last months rent." Further debate followed as to whether Robyn should ask Charlie and Duffy to look after Charlotte but Robyn was reluctant to burden her friends with yet another problem. All the while, Connie mentally pondered a possible solution of her own, from a safe distance. When Alicia finally beckoned for Robyn, Connie kicked into action and entered the staff room with her proposition.

"Robyn, you're needed in resus." Connie softly administered instruction, "You can leave Charlotte with me."

"Mrs. Beauchamp -"

Robyn chewed hard on her bottom lip, conflicted by the same hardship Connie was all-too-familiar with in her experience of motherhood. It was the life of a patient, or her child, and Robyn naturally required a firmer approach to reach her decision. "Go, Nurse Miller." A blur of blue scrubs scrambled away from the staff room and Max speechlessly observed as Connie hibernated in her office with the infant.

Facilitated by Henrik Hanssen, to ease the strain of her workload, Connie had placed herself primarily on admin three days a week. With the exception of the ever-inquisitive and and socially-defective Dylan, no one within the team had questioned the move. Potentially because they were far too involved with their own lives to even have noticed, but more likely because the NHS were infamous for the paperwork they overwhelmed the senior members of every department with. As such, the afternoon passed by uneventfully; Robyn dipped in and out of her office every now and then but Charlotte remained curiously content to be left alone with Connie. In fact, Connie almost wished Charlotte would cry of fuss, if only to provide excuse for her to hold the nine month old.

Eventually, her prayers were answered, as Charlotte started to blubber in complaint at what little attention she received. "It's okay," Connie apprehensively lifted the baby from her carrier and cradled her into arms that were tensely curled. The warmth of the tiny body curled into her chest and Connie was left intoxicated by the baby powder smell. It felt like yesterday that Grace had been just as small. In her line of work, she had held multiple babies but almost always with concern for their health, rather than the pure enchantment of a child's cuddle.

"Ga-da." Charlotte spouted uninterpretable syllables as she reached for Connie and patted her cheek with a little hand.

Her heart all but melted, and Connie smiled with a yearn for the moment she would hold her own child for the very first time. The prospect enthralled and terrified her but it bode well that Charlotte settled with such ease. It offered hope that she wasn't the failure in the maternal role she believed herself to be, after all. "Mummy will be here very soon." She soothed, her nose buried in the few strands of blonde Charlotte had.

Within a few hours, Robyn returned for Charlotte. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Beauchamp." Once more, the Clinical Lead had been a real-life wonder woman and Robyn would always be thankful. Just like Charlie, Robyn had a vision that stretched beyond the frosty exterior to witness the compassionate Connie Beauchamp she preferred to pretend didn't exist. There was so much in her make-up that she would never dare reveal for public consumption. "She must really like you. Probably more than Max," Robyn quipped, and her half-brother rolled his eyes at the comment, before the dark-haired beauty from another department distracted him away from the conversation.

Connie smiled, semi-amused but sad to have her time with Charlotte reach its end. "Hmm, oh, it was my pleasure."

"I hope she wasn't too much of a distraction," Robyn tenderly zipped Charlotte into her outdoor suit. She half-expected Connie to deliver a lecture on her unprofessionalism but Connie simply shook her head, apparently mesmerised by Charlotte. The mother in Connie had surfaced for all to see and it was wonderful to behold, the perfect end to her shift. "Have a good evening, Mrs. Beauchamp."

"Robyn," Connie's voice halted her departure. "If you need to work out a new shift pattern, or if I can help in any way, whatever I can do to accommodate you, please remember my door will always be open for you."

With that, Robyn fell a little more in love with her Clinical Lead. Her very own heroine.


	10. Episode Thirteen

"A warm welcome to you all, but especially to Charlotte."

Connie diplomatically positioned herself toward the back of the hospital chapel. Despite the fact that Robyn had insisted that she attend the ceremony, to christen Charlotte, Connie automatically felt out of place. Alicia, Charlie, David, Dylan, Duffy, Elle, Ethan, Jacob, Louise, Max; it was a whole social crowd that Connie held herself exempt from as a matter of principle.

Once the formalities had concluded, the party ambled across the road to the 'Hope and Anchor' for the first round on Dylan. Her coat firmly wrapped around her swollen waist, Connie pondered that she should join the team, however, the days events had left her with much to deliberate on. Glen and Robyn walked side-by-side, Charlotte in her pram, and Connie admired the newfound family of three from a distance. It was a very different picture from the one Robyn had envisioned when Charlotte was born. The nurse had shown such bravery and maturity to welcome Glen back into their lives, to show him amnesty for his fault; Connie wondered why she was unable to do the same for the father of her children.

Sam had promised her once that he would _always_ be there, for Grace and for her too. Yet, there were very few times that he honoured that word, and all too many times when he failed to remember it. When Grace was barely two years old, he departed for America the first time with his son. He remained an absentee father until Audrey wormed her way back into their lives, when Connie returned to Holby and accepted the consultancy position. His subsequent involvement admittedly had a positive influence on Grace - she appeared more settled, at home and in school - but it rendered Connie consciously bitter that Sam had always been the one to ride to her rescue. What she had failed to realise, until it was too late, was that it had been her life devotion to medicine that cemented Grace's closeness to Sam. In the eyes of Grace, he was the first one to put her at the very top of his priority list.

"Mrs. Beauchamp," Ethan appeared by her side. He zipped his coat up, to protect from the cool breeze. "Will you join us for a drink?" He sensed her hesitancy to respond, "My round." He flashed her a hapless smile. "It's the least I can do, think of it as repayment for all the revision sessions the past few weeks. Thanks to you, I may actually pass my consultancy exams."

Connie curled her lip upward. He was so self-deprecative. "I have every faith in you, Dr. Hardy." She shied away from the prospect of further socialisation with the team, "Thank you for the invitation but I have a prior consultation with Mr. Hanssen."

It was an effortless lie and one Ethan obliviously swallowed. She paused, until he had entered the pub across the road, before she climbed until her vehicle and drove home. The foyer of the house was inundated with the delivery she had received earlier in the day; a bulk buy of every piece of baby equipment a mother would ever require. The crib hand-crafted, a blue-thistle colour to celebrate the revelation that she would be blessed with a son in less than five months. She had entered what her midwife appointed the 'honeymoon' period, and the second trimester was as sublime as she promised it would be.

There was, however, the mild concern of who would act as Clinical Lead in her eventual absence. Zoe had emailed her personally with blatant confusion as to why Connie required a temporary replacement for the role. Connie responded with the party line that she had decided to invest her time in a research project, which would utilise her full attention and she didn't care to jeopardise the safety of the department for further credit to her name. Nevertheless, Zoe rejected the offer; life in the States had treated her well, supposedly.

As she poured herself a cup of herbal tea, Connie settled on the sofa and typed a vehement refusal to Hannsen's proposition that Sam Strachan be second choice for the position. His work as Medical Director had caused her more trouble than she cared to relive.

Darkness fell upon the house, and Connie passed by the hours in construction mode. She could have built the crib with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back. It bode well for round two of motherhood. The first time, she had been almost detached from the entire process; Grace was loved and wanted from the very start, but a distraction to her work, nonetheless. If she had any hope that she would do better for her son, the issue of who would assume the role of Clinical Lead for the department at the time of her maternity leave would have to be addressed. Her brain clicked into action and Connie searched the number in her iPhone address book.

His voice was audibly bewildered, "Mrs. Beauchamp?"

"I hope I haven't disturbed you, Dr. Hardy?" She remarked upon his dismay at what may have appeared a social call.

"No, of course not -"

"I'm afraid I won't be on-shift next week." Connie hindered his reply with her own continued conversation. "But Mr. Hanssen and I had a brief discussion and he supported my request that you run the E.D. in my absence."

"M-Me?" Ethan stuttered in disbelief, mostly at why he had been chosen.

Had it been Lily or Alicia, they would have jumped at the opportunity to prove their worth. "Yes, Dr. Hardy, if you think you can handle the pressure." In the back of her mind, Connie stored the reminder that Cal's death was still raw for him and, undoubtedly, the memory of Scott Ellison's death rattled around his head. At her request, he had attended a therapy session, to balance the emotions that overruled him on a daily basis and the external counsel appeared to help.

"There's so many other people better qualified," Ethan countered, oppositional to himself, as always.

Connie rolled her eyes, impatiently, "Well, if you would rather I asked Dr. Keo -"

His ambitious nature eventually ruptured his anxiety and he cut her off this time. "No, no, I accept. I am more than happy to accept." Ethan was so ecstatic that he failed to question what had caused her unanticipated leave. "Thank you, Mrs. Beauchamp, for your belief in me." He wasn't quite sure what he had done to earn such confidence. He felt honoured. "I promise I won't let you down."

"See to it that you don't," she cooly warned.


	11. Episode Fifteen

"Mrs. Beauchamp, scalpel, please." It was the first time Alicia had ever seen her Clinical Lead falter at such a crucial point. "You okay?"

Hands protected by SP Gloves trembled as Connie unwrapped the medical instrument. She had overcome the sickness of her first trimester but a different kind of nausea riddled her stomach; one of complete and utter panic, as she contemplated the risk posed to her unborn child. While Alicia verbally soothed her patient, Connie's eyes wandered to the red fire buckets Duffy had fetched. It was a fifty-fifty chance as to whether the flare would be safely retrieved. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, as the scalpel plummeted from her hand.

"Mrs. Beauchamp?"

With little conscious control of her body functions, Connie reversed away from the patient and ripped the disposable apron off her form, when she fled from the decontamination tent. She unintentionally backed into the open arms of Jacob, who frowned with concern for her evident panic. "What happened?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat and replied, barely audible, "I -" His mind raced a mile per second. In his determination to survey the situation for himself, he failed to notice the hand that sheltered her stomach from the threat of harm.

"Jacob, we could really use you in here." Duffy petitioned for his assistance from inside the tent, and Jacob hurried inside.

By the time the bomb squad arrived on the scene, Alicia's 'A team' had resolved the situation. Within the protective walls of her office, Connie slowly spilt into meltdown mode. She had walked away from a patient in need, for her own selfish reason. She had abandoned her team, the very people who depended on her to be present and unafraid. It terrified Connie that _already_ she had started to lose herself to her child. Since Grace entered existence, she had been split down the middle and amidst the unnameable battle of Grace's mother and Mrs. Connie Beauchamp. The shift continued fairly uneventfully; everybody in the department openly celebrated Alicia's victory but, behind closed doors, pondered what had caused their Clinical Lead to freeze up. Unremarkably, the only person who summoned the nerve to confront her with their confusion was the ever-concerned Charlie. She was almost scot-free, at the end of her shift, keys in hand and a few feet from the car park when he decided to strike.

"Uh, Connie."

She bit down hard on her bottom lip, frustrated, but formulated a pleasant smile when she halted and he ambled from behind. "Yes, Charlie. What can I do for you?"

Charlie burrowed his hands into each trouser pocket and smiled in his own awkward fashion. Whilst unconvinced, he had accepted her earlier assurances but the rumour that she had bailed on her patient, apparently for no other reason but fear didn't sit well with him. There was more to the story, especially if his wife was to be believed. "Duffy's worried about you," he replied. He had decided on the honesty tact.

This didn't surprise Connie. Still, she played the innocent to the hilt. "Really?" For weeks, Duffy had been perilously suspicious of her every move and Connie had evaded her like a mouse would a cat. "Why?"

Charlie mirrored her nonchalance and continued in the direction of the staff car park. "She called it female intuition." Connie could feel her heart drop in her chest, so far it bounced off her stomach and started to rise back up to its socket. "You have been off your game for some time and it's more than just Grace." He shredded her easiest excuse before she could interject. "You've thrown yourself into work but, every so often, you make these tiny little slips and it tells me there's more. Today, Ethan covered your patient in resus but that wasn't before you failed to release him for his consultancy exam." Connie raised her eyes to the sky above and her lips curled into cheerless form. Hopeful not to cause any major scar tissue, Charlie softened a little. "Whatever it is, Connie… let the people that love you, help you."

"I am fine, Charlie -"

"No, Connie, you're not. What's on your mind?" Duffy had already voiced her stance on what secret Connie had under wraps but Charlie was averse to the idea. It simply didn't sync with the Connie Beauchamp he had known and loved.

"I -" her lips trembled, disinclined to verbalise the latest reality of her life. Instead, she delved into her purse and retrieved the latest scan.

He failed to contain his astonishment and released a timid, "Oh." Connie bowed her head and stared at feet which ached in Louboutin heels. "Is Sam the father?" He inquired the one piece of information most people would eventually ask, the moment her happy news was released for public consumption. She avoided eye contact and Charlie bemoaned what she communicated without a word, "You haven't told him, have you?" It was the plausible explanation for his absence. From what Charlie understood, Sam had moved heaven and earth to be involved before Grace was even born. While Connie silently prevailed, Charlie chuckled, "Say what you will, my wife doesn't miss a trick."

"She is a midwife with thirty years experience," Connie replied, catty and waspish.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Charlie protested, involuntarily offended by her faux-pas of friendship.

Truthfully, Connie didn't have an answer to that question. She wasn't ashamed or embarrassed. Was it that she simply wanted a little piece of love all for herself? Hidden from the world, her very own Rapunzel locked away in a tower unreachable. Did she truly believe she could hide her son for all of eternity? No. It was more the case that Connie had refused to think so far ahead, otherwise she would have at least informed Grace.

Charlie relented from cross-examination and calculated from the date printed above the scan. "Less than four months, Baby _Boy_ Beauchamp?" Connie nodded in overjoyed confirmation of the imminent arrival.

She quickly became serene and whispered, "Promise me you won't tell a soul, Charlie."

Hers was a desperate plea and it wrenched at his heart. He simply couldn't refuse her. "Promise." He had witnessed, first-hand, the effect Sam's decision to return Grace to America. It wouldn't have been unthinkable that her decision not to inform him of their child was born out of the fear she would lose her son, too. Perhaps, it was his just dessert.


	12. Episode Sixteen

Like any normal workaholic would, Connie Beauchamp despised annual leave. In the week Hanssen had ordered her to remain at home, she had constructed three perfectly valid excuses to drop in and supervise the department. Nevertheless, time off was probably for the best. Charlie and Duffy fussed her at every opportune moment available, which roused attention from other members of the team. The odds were apparently in her favour, however, since most minds were captivated by the latest scandal to hit the department. Charlie had kindly texted her with a brief heads-up of the hushed staff-room hearsay, which was why it rendered Connie nonplussed to receive an after-hours visit from an old flame.

Mutedly, Connie widened the door further and welcomed him inside. His feet remained rooted to the spot. After all, he had been there for fifteen minutes or more, hesitantly undecided as to whether or not he should intrude. Even when she scooped an arm around his back and steered him across the threshold, Jacob wasn't entirely sure he should have been there.

"Here, drink that." Connie produced an Evian bottle and placed it on the kitchen surface.

He was bleary-eyed from tears and tequila, the latter of which she could detect on his warm breath. Instead, Jacob reached for the unopened 12-pack of Stella that remained, despite his departure form her life. He popped the bottle open and all but inhaled its content. The atmosphere was palpable, as his emotional tension suffocated the house. "She lied to me," he finally conveyed what Connie had already known, and it showed in her dauntless expression. Jacob shook his head, "Seventeen years, man, and that was my kid, the whole time."

Louise had inadvertently eavesdropped the moment Elle confessed Blake's parenthood to Jacob, and typically, the information had spread like wildfire ever since. As such, it had allowed Connie the opportunity to fully process the upheaval and manifest an appropriate response. Whether she liked it or not - and, truth be told, she didn't - it meant that she and Elle Gardner weren't so different. Her conscious choice not to inform Sam of their second child was the exact betrayal Jacob lamented from Elle. "Have you talked to Blake?"

"To say what?" He impatiently snapped, an uncommon behaviour from him, and Connie physically shrunk away at the sound of it. The alcohol had the best of him and Jacob slumped onto the nearest breakfast bar stool, the half-empty beer bottle in his hand. His mind had lapped so many circles, his feet treaded so many miles that it rendered him exhausted, and _she_ was the only one in the world he trusted as his confidante.

Every part of her body wanted to comfort and offer reassurance to him, but Connie actively restrained herself from even the friendliest touch. It would be a downward slide, it would complicate her life beyond measure and it would make her a hypocrite.

"I was one of the first people to hold that boy, you know?" His question was a rhetorical one since there was no possible way she could have. He had opened the chest of memories from way back when and examined every little moment with Elle since their son was born and, honestly, he wondered why he hadn't clocked it before. Her actions were far from subtle. It must have been his own deep-rooted denial that clouded his intuition and ability to discern dearest friendship from a more complex connection.

Connie delicately traced her nails back and forth across her forehead, as she ostensibly pondered her response. After brief contemplation, she decided to follow the route of stoic professionalism for the best outcome. "Listen, Jacob, why don't I drive you home?" His face fell at the proposal, "Get some rest." It was such a pathetic attempt at consolation but his dilemma was miles from her area of expertise. Whatever issues she had with Grace in the past bared no resemblance to it; and she was on the other end of a child concealed from one parent. "Wake up tomorrow with a clear head -" Her calmness almost tricked him into the notion that the betrayal could be swept under the carpet.

He vehemently shook his head, "And what? Pretend it never happened." He was drunk and defensive. "You may be able to shut your emotions off like that, man, but I can't. Okay?" He became more and more irate, especially at her failure to provide him any real solace.

"Jacob -"

"No, didn't you hear what I said?" Jacob bellowed, from the depths of his torso. "She kept my son from me."

Connie muttered a faint response barely audible above his vexation, "Yeah, well, she must have had her reasons."

His eyes widened incredulously, not at how removed she seemed from his heartache but at her absurd defence of the woman she despised. It didn't make any sense, it wouldn't have made sense in a sober state. "What?" Jacob didn't raise his voice above a whisper and his distaste was evident. He could visualise her brain tick for vindication, but her lips were clamped shut.

"Whatever Elle did, she did what she believed was best for her child at the time." Connie belatedly retorted, but Jacob had already detached himself from their dispute. His eyes were transfixed way behind her and Connie looked over her shoulder to follow his line of vision. The prenatal vitamins had become such an ordinary part of her daily routine that she almost didn't realise why they would seem so out of place to him. Panic seized her body as if it had rusted in the cold, as Jacob brushed past her and examined the capsule bottle.

All his experience as a nurse reached the one conclusion he refused to accept, but there was no other explanation. "How many weeks are you?"

"Jacob -"

Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle meshed into one and created the clearest picture. Her irrational moods at work, the frequent absences, all the times she hibernated in her office and why she hid her petite frame beneath the loose-fit of a floaty blouse. "Is it mine?"

"No," she replied, as horrified by it as he seemed to be. Predominantly because, if he had been the father of her child, she would have informed him. It knocked her off-kilter at that realisation. She questioned why she refused Sam the same curtesy and the only difference was Grace. Jacob hadn't been the one who virtually kidnapped her child for warmer shores and a completely different time zone.

"Who then?" It didn't matter to Jacob that the paternity of her child wasn't his business at that point, he was too invested not to learn more.

"I don't see why that would be any of your concern," Connie side-stepped the question.

Her abrasive nature swiftly clued him in and his mouth unconsciously fell open in surprise. "Sam," he stated, as if it were fact, even if he couldn't be completely certain of it. He processed the announcement without hint of his internal despair and questioned what kind of reception Connie had derived from her family. "Well, how does Grace feel about it?" The blankness within her expression prompted his next demand, "Have you told her?" Once more, the vacancy in her eyes forewarned him of the emotional ditch he had blindly fallen into.

"No, not yet," Connie recovered her composure but she stuttered a little.

The stutter was her tell, whenever another secret she had buried was unearthed, there came that latent stutter in her rush to deny and protest her innocence. Except, Jacob was so hellbent on his quest to delve deeper that he almost missed it. "What about Sam?" There was a whole lot of the former medical director that Jacob disliked, but he respected the man in his parental instinct. "Why aren't they here with you?" She considered a transparent lie that she and Sam had decided it best that Grace remain at her school in America, where she felt secure, but Connie suspected he wouldn't buy it. Jacob frowned, "Connie."

"What?"

Her pretence of innocence was a feeble one. "He doesn't know, does he?"

Connie heavily exhaled, "It's complicated."

Her words were an echo of the ones Elle had shielded herself with and it awakened his resentment. His mouth opened, capable of every harsh word to vocalise his disappointment in her but he clammed up. In the space of the next ten seconds, he fled from the house.


	13. Episode Seventeen

"What do you think, Mrs. B?"

Noel proudly corralled the Clinical Lead and displayed jazz-hands in front of the finely decorated Christmas tree. The brazen symbol of the winter season that had crept upon them fit beautifully in reception but Connie was off-put by how quickly time had flown by; it seemed like only yesterday that she realised she carried a precious little life inside.

She hurried beyond the receptionist and steadily chased Jacob up the stairs with one hand on the bannister to assist her balance. "Staff Nurse Masters," she beseeched his name and prayed it would slow him down but to no avail. He had already scaled the staircase before she had even reached the halfway platform. "Jacob." All shift, they had played the real-life replica of cat and mouse, the way he persistently eluded her attempt to pin him down and rationalise the secrecy that shrouded her unborn child. Thankfully, he paused on the first floor and Connie breathlessly approached him from behind.

He pivoted on the spot, and his eyes artlessly fell to her mid-section. He wondered why and how he, and presumably the entire department, could have been so blind, in their failure to witness what should have been ostensive to doctors and nurses of their calibre. If anyone bothered to look closely, the baby bump was quite prominent, even if she had concealed it meticulously and Jacob estimated that she had reached the twenty-week mark. "Let's keep it professional, shall we?" His words were unnaturally lukewarm and very similar to the cold shoulder she had shown him once or twice before. He stood an entire head and shoulders above her and it was representative of the moral pedestal he possessed. "I haven't called Sam, if that's what you're worried about."

She refrained from the offensive response that such action wouldn't have been out of character for him. In any case, she had presumed as much, since she had received neither phone call, nor surprise visit from Sam. Grateful, Connie permitted him the briefest of smiles that was left unreturned. "Thank you." The act of kindness and loyalty was unexpected; she had deposited seventeen missed calls to his home screen in the space of the week, every one of them paid no mind. "Jacob, I know what you must think of me."

"You sure about that?"

There was such malicious intent from him that it scalded Connie. She presumed the source of his venom was the parallel to his own experience with Elle but couldn't help wonder if, perhaps, he was a little bit jealous, too. He had rushed out of the house before she could explain that the conception had been a fifteen minute blip of consciousness on her part, not a revival of an affair with the ever-irresistible Sam Strachan. "Listen, Sam and I -" There was an unquenchable desire at her core that willed her to attest her loyalty to him, possibly the first time Connie Beauchamp had ever felt it necessary to explain herself to anyone. "It only happened once. I was in a bad place -" she impulsively started to deceive him with what wasn't a lie in its entirety. The carnal moment had been fuelled with emotion, predominantly hers; the walls Grace ferociously shut her mother out with had fallen but Connie feared it was only a matter of time before she lost her balance in the act of motherhood; the department had been divided by the staff cuts that threatened lives and livelihoods; and Sam continually immobilised her authority with his position. He was the pariah of the E.D. and so was she, by mere affiliation.

"I don't need to hear this," Jacob spat. It was all too much for his lovesick heart to hear and, even more so, when he spied Elle mid-stride in their very direction. It was near-impossible to circumvent both of the women but he was determined to thwart Elle's attempts to pursue him at work.

"Jacob," Connie bemoaned, as she chased behind the man on a mission to escape. "Why does this bother you so much?" Their relationship had been thrown to the wolves weeks before she and Sam conceived another child, and jealously wasn't his style, or so he proclaimed. "You and I -"

He rotated his body to stare her down into a deep shame. "This isn't about you and me." His tone indicated that the underlay of his resentment should have been obvious to her. "You lied to Sam. Exactly the same way Elle lied to me. You separated your kid from their father before he or she was even born, man. _That's_ what bothers me." Jacob vanished into the distance and Connie scowled, when her eyes met those of the consultant she disliked most. Guilt was the pertinent emotion Elle displayed, so much so that Connie walked by without sour repartee. This was one infected wound Elle would have to lick all by herself.

"Uh, Mrs. Beauchamp," Ethan anxiously trailed his superior, as she wandered past reception for the second time.

"What is it, Dr. Hardy?"

"Your endoscopy patient," he reminded her of the sketchy female patient she had treated, "She left."

"What?" Connie snarled, her tone harsher than it had been in recent weeks toward Ethan. He had advanced tremendously well from the nervous wreck that had written a letter in confession of his sin. Her spiritual reinforcement had been a literal lifeline. "Dr. Hardy, she is an extremely vulnerable patient. You do not simply allow her to walk out." She rolled her eyes, dissatisfied by how dense he could be.

Charlie happened upon her vitriol and raised an eyebrow, "With all due respect, Connie, she all but sprinted out the door after you abandoned her for whatever that little spat of yours with Jacob was about." Her eyes viciously narrowed at the accusatory tone of voice. It was one of those times when it seemed as if Charlie Fairhead was hidden in the walls, the eyes and ears of the hospital. "She waited for over thirty minutes and nearly bowled me over when she realised you wouldn't be there."

Connie shrivelled her nose and checked her wristwatch, convinced that it couldn't have possibly been thirty minutes, but the clock didn't lie and neither did Charlie Fairhead; and she had been determined to track Jacob down hours before she finally stumbled upon him. Embarrassed that her personal life had overshadowed her professionalism, Connie sheepishly loomed toward her most trustworthy paramedic. "Iain, I need you to send a unit back out to Turpine Road." His face shrivelled at her explanation, "My patient might be there."

"Might be?" Iain repelled backward, "We barely have enough units for the blue light calls, Mrs. Beauchamp, I'm sorry."

Connie prayed for what little patience she could muster. "Charlie, have Alicia cover my patients in minors." She was damned, if she would let her worth ethic be compromised. "I'll check the address myself."

With that, Charlie and Ethan - and Jacob, from a safe distance - watched her hastily exit the E.D. with her car keys in hand. All three had learnt it was better not to dispute the decision she deemed fit. Nearly two hours later, all three men bustled around the department, careful not to stray too far from the double-doored entrance, in case Connie surfaced. At last, Iain led the cavalry that returned the queen to her castle. "Connie Beauchamp, 49 years old. She fell one storey when the floorboards collapsed. Her fall was broken by an old mattress below and her neck was cleared at the scene."

"Connie." Jacob sprinted to her side and helped Iain accelerate her into bay 3, at the command of Ethan.

"GCS 13, she's hypotensive and tachycardic -" Iain reeled off the relevant statistics for the trauma team, who had waited on standby for the arrival of a second ambulance. The nine-month old child and mother Connie had rescued were already swarmed by their own team. Charlie, Ethan and Jacob followed Iain's countdown to move her onto a bed. "She also appears to be in her second trimester; estimated twenty weeks." That detail was the one to monopolise the attention of the team most.

"Twenty three." Connie removed her nasal mask, and breathlessly corrected him. "Twenty three weeks." She forced Charlie to look her dead in the eye and spoke as plainly as if he had known about the baby's existence from the start. "Get me an ultrasound, Charlie."

"She needs a CT scan," Elle advised, not fully focused on her own patient.

"No," Connie barked, typically oppositional of whatever input her competitor offered. "This baby comes first." She raised her voice to ensure Charlie listened to her above Elle, who questioned the likelihood of trauma to the head, due to the fall. "There's some tension in my lower abdomen but no cramps. It could be Braxton Hicks, it could be pre-term labour; I need that ultrasound."

In his experience, the former option was unlikely at such an early point but preferable to the latter option, which threatened the life of her unborn child. His experience also informed him that a distressed mother resulted in a distressed baby and Charlie nodded his head at Ethan, to confirm that he supported Connie. "Let's perform an ultrasound down here and then upstairs for that CT scan."


	14. Episode Eighteen

The feeble knock-knock on the door to her private hospital room woke Connie from a shallow doze. "Louise."

Louise opened the door an inch wider than her body and slunk inside. If Charlie or Jacob became aware of her inconvenient disturbance, they wouldn't hesitate to penalise her. "Hi, Mrs. Beauchamp."

How demure the nurse seemed instantaneously worried Connie. Earlier assurances provided by Noel, who delivered a hamper filled with an assortment of bathroom necessities and puppy-themed card from the team had warmed her heart, but she wondered if they had been little white lies for her benefit. Those pearly whites beamed a little too wide for Connie to fall for his act. "All okay downstairs?" Louise jerked her shoulders upward, reminiscent of a moody adolescent and definitively oppositional to Noel's promise of; " _All under control, Mrs.B."_

Connie raised her eyebrows a little more and, with a moment or two of tense silence, Louise cracked. "It's a mess down there without you." The Clinical Lead rolled her eyes humorously and smirked, convinced the tantrum was falsified, so as not to wound her pride. The meltdown spiralled, however, and Louise was the human equivalent of Mount Etna. Her eruption disclosed the latest debacle Dylan had been involved with and Connie privately calculated how many weeks the characteristically-reliable consultant had been noticeably unreliable. "He won't listen to anyone. All shift, he's behaved like a little prat."

"Ah, okay, thank you, Louise." Connie played devils advocate and mildly scolded the nurse.

Louise dropped her eyes to the floor and suffered a bout of shame. It was vast relief to let off steam from the difficult shift but she hadn't even bothered to ask for an update from the woman in the hospital bed. "Sorry, Mrs. Beauchamp." She muttered under her breath, like a scolded child, and the older woman offered forward the opened but untouched box of chocolates Ethan had delivered. Louise selected one and forced a smile of positivity for the patient. "How d'you feel anyway?"

Trapped, like an animal in the zoo; was the answer Connie would have honestly answered. "Oh, you know what they say; doctors always make for the worst patients," she playfully replied. After the house collapse, her blood pressure shot up from excessively and the protein levels in her urine confirmed that she had developed pre-eclampsia. It made sense; the slowed baby development had permitted her to hide the pregnancy for an extensive period of time. "I should be released by the end of the week." She had been admitted to the hospital ever since but her vitals had improved, and Connie was obstinate in her refusal to unnecessarily occupy the hospital bed.

The visit was complete within half an hour; Louise shifted with moderate discomfort every time the Clinical Lead's iPhone vibrated for thirty seconds while the name Sam Strachan popped up on the screen. Even after Louise left, Connie dismissed the call and was unsurprised to receive a vicious text with every accusation under the sun. She scoffed at the irony of it. Connie Beauchamp, the absentee mother; if only he were to learn the truth. Her heart ached for Grace. The poor child was devastated that her mother hadn't been able to fly out for the holidays. Luckily for Connie, Sam was so preoccupied with their child's devastation that he didn't bother to question it when Hanssen's office informed him that Connie's request for leave had been declined. It wasn't entirely a lie. Due to her admission, Connie celebrated Christmas on the ward with intermittent visits from Charlie and the others in her team, all except Jacob.

Time moved much slower in a hospital, and Connie had driven herself stir-crazy to cabin fever on the ward. Duffy had kindly purchased an A-Z baby name book, which Connie had happily devoured and derived her very own shortlist from. Earthy names like Isaac, Noah and Theo were the top three favourites but Connie was more concerned with which surname her son would adopt. Since relocation to America, Grace had officially renamed herself a Strachan; Beauchamp was Michael's name and a mixture of the two would be a mouthful for anyone.

"A-Z of baby names," the Chief Executive Officer of Holby City Hospital rounded the open doorway and stepped over the threshold.

Connie lowered the book and red pen into her lap, "Henrik, what a pleasant surprise." She addressed him with a warmth in her tone more often reserved for Grace, or a patient. It was the first time she had encountered Hanssen since what could only be described as an act of terrorism on Darwin and Keller ward. Two staff fatalities and three more injured, the most notable Jac, who Connie personally sent flowers to.

"Yes," he stiffly responded. "Well, unfortunately, I am the bearer of bad news." With both hands behind his back, Hanssen stood tall like a beanstalk; ordinarily, Connie would have found it difficult to process him with any seriousness at all, but there was a deep melancholy about him. "As previously discussed, Dr. Hanna has turned down the position of Clinical Lead. It would appear that life in Holby lacks a certain luster to the one she may lead in the States, however, I do understand that she will be in town as of next week for a flyover visit." Connie scowled irritably but Hanssen continued, unperturbed by her response. "Whilst I have no doubt that you will be more than able to carry out your duty as Clinical Lead to term, there is still the rather delicate matter of your postpartum maternity leave. The department simply does not run itself."

"Yes, thank you, I am well aware of that." She snapped, one hand raised to silence him and allow herself a moment to contemplate. There were very few who possessed the capability to act as Clinical Lead, even less who Connie trusted. What Louise had vented confirmed that Dylan was a definite no-no, and Hanssen's inevitable motion that Elle lead the ship would be profusely shot down without hesitation.

"There are a number of consultants who possess the -"

She circumvented him with an impulsive move, "Dr. Hardy." His eyes widened behind the thin-lined spectacles and Connie licked her lips, more than prepared to justify her choice. "What he may lack in experience, he more than makes up for in ambition. He recently passed his consultancy exams to the highest accolade and he has an impeccable record within the department." The last statement may have been a minor infraction of the truth - Ethan was infamous for his number of patient breaches - but Connie was confident that Ethan would evolve into a spectacular Clinical Lead, especially if she mentored him until the imminent arrival of her child.

Hanssen twitched his lips and eventually conceded, "On your head be it." He turned on his heels to leave but halted to feed his incessantly curious nature with one question. "I presume Mr. Strachan remains uninformed of your condition?"

Connie fell back on her walled-defence. "That's entirely my business."

He retreated into stoicism, "Of course, Mrs. Beauchamp. Get well soon." Nonchalant, he departed the room and Connie reached for her iPhone. For all the missed calls and texts from Sam, there was radio silence from Grace. Her decision to ostensibly prioritise work before family was yet another epic failure and one Grace would, assuredly, take some time to recover from.


	15. Episode Twenty

After a rapid recovery period, Connie returned to work in full force. Her bump was displayed prominently in the maternity business wear she flaunted, so that anybody not previously aware of her affairs certainly was by the time she strode into reception.

Her first order of business was the set of interviews for the consultant post. It was one of her administrative duties, which appeased her doctors, who probably would have preferred it had she not returned to work. There was risk that further exertion would exacerbate the pre-eclampsia but Connie was confidently aware of her limit. The day passed by as expected; not one of the external candidates held a candle to Ethan, but the formalities of the application process had to be followed. It reaffirmed her decision to train Ethan to prepare for the role of Clinical Lead of the department, when she eventually started her maternity leave.

By the afternoon, a new consultant had been appointed and Connie personally complimented Ethan on his promotion. "You didn't hear it from me," she warned, "But it was unanimous." He almost lost his balance on two feet, "The board will be in touch."

"I'm a consultant." Ethan quite literally jumped for joy at his promotion.

"Well done, Dr. Hardy," she praised him, stoical, and wandered in the direction of her office. Dylan bypassed her like a delinquent child would the headmistress in school, and Connie set a mental reminder to delve deeper into whether whatever troubled him would affect his work. Elsewhere in the department, Jacob and Elle were absorbed into their own family drama. Connie was only relieved that Jacob was occupied with his own child, since the two of them hadn't spoken a word since she had been outed.

"Hello, Connie."

Connie entered her office to be welcomed by the familiar voice and she halted. Hot under the collar of her crisp, white shirt, yet frozen to the spot, Connie laid eyes on the father of her children for the first time in months. "Sam."

"You look surprised to… see me." Bravado was lost and his words faltered, as his eyes drifted to her torso, before she could wrap the navy blazer around her stomach to conceal it. Sam stumbled over the combative accusations he had prepared in his head and instantly rose to his feet, from behind her desk. "You're pregnant." The factual sentence was posed as more of a question, or perhaps a show of disbelief.

She dismissed his comment with the words that naturally fell out her mouth. "Is Grace with you?"

Connie scanned the office for any trace of her child; an iPad and unicorn decorated headphones, the Jolly Rancher sweets Grace was so fond of in America. Meanwhile, Sam was hypnotised by the celestial vision of an expectant Connie. "You're pregnant, Connie." She was indefinitely beyond the halfway mark. Her apparent absence from their lives suddenly made sense, or confused him all the more. Indeed, Connie wouldn't have surreptitiously dropped from the radar unless it was imperative she conceal her secret, and Sam reconciled with the fact that he had fathered her unborn child. It wouldn't have been the first time Connie attempted to withhold his child. "Why didn't you call me?"

Connie closed the door of her office and scoured her brain for an answer; _who_ would have called Sam? Charlie wouldn't dare betray her in such a manner and Jacob was entrenched with Blake. "I should ask you the same. Shouldn't you be with your fiancee in New York?" She sarcastically retorted, and Sam realised he had thrown her off balance by this unexpected reappearance in her life.

"Grace stayed in New York." He eased her mind and followed it up with a white lie for comfort. "She wanted to visit but the school are keen to maintain her attendance, after so many months out of education -" Connie twitched in an all-too-awkward fashion. She found it hard to believe Grace had any interest in a visit. Sam crossed his arms over his chest, "I'm sure she would have been fascinated to learn she's about to become an older sister for the first time." He frowned, with disappointment, and his tone was stern. "She doesn't deserve to be kept in the dark. What's the matter, Connie; didn't think you could trust her to lie to me as easily as you do?"

His cantankerous attitude inflamed her fiery nature and her confidence soared. She rolled her eyes, "Oh, don't be so dramatic. I wanted to wait until I saw Grace in person to tell her the news."

Her justification did little to rouse him. "When would that be exactly?" Sam acerbically remarked, unconvinced. "This is why you cancelled the Christmas break in Aspen at the last minute, isn't it? You didn't even have the moxie to call me or Grace yourself, you had one of Hanssen's assistants do it for you instead." Every caustic piece of commentary vindicated for Connie why she had been correct in her choice not to inform Sam. He simply couldn't help but duel with her at every turn.

"You know what, Sam," her lips curled into a snarl. "How and when I decide to communicate this to Grace is entirely my business, and I shouldn't have to explain myself to you." Connie blithely orchestrated the theme of the conversation to revolve around Grace.

Sam blissfully fell into the trap she set. "I'm her father, Connie -"

She narrowed her eyes, incensed. She slammed her hand down on the desk, "Why are you here, Sam?" It would seem he was uninformed of the latest circumstance in her life until he had seen her in person, which meant his decision to return to the U.K. was an independent one.

"Grace was devastated when you didn't visit for the holidays." Guilt-trips were his favourite weapon of choice, and Connie clenched her teeth at the sound of it. She had sent the most lavish presents ahead of time. Still, her absence spoke volumes. "I was immediately suspicious when I received the call from Hanssen's office, and now I know my instincts were on the money." She nervously played with the wristband of her watch while Sam scrutinised her bump, the same way a detective would a crime scene. "When is the baby due?"

"March," Connie correlated, characteristically disassociated from any type of conversation with him in which she could be typecast as the villain.

He balled his hands into fists and packed them into their respective trouser pocket. He could already sense the ways in which she had distanced herself from him, the walls that were built to shut him out. "Listen, Connie, whatever our differences, you and I need to be ready to put them aside. If not for Grace, then for this child -"

A wicked cackle burst from her lips and callously interrupted him. "Sorry, Sam. What makes you think this baby is any of your concern?"

"Connie, I'm not an idiot. Believe it or not, I wasn't accepted into medical school without the ability to calculate a nine month time difference -" She bit back an instinctive insult, in an effort not to inflame the situation. "Did you really think you could hide this from me?"

An expeditious knock preceded the entrance of an excitable Ethan. "Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Beauchamp but I -" his eyes processed the vision of Sam and he stopped in his track. "Mr. Strachan. I didn't realise -" Bewildered, Ethan frowned but cracked a small smile. "Welcome back." He internally prayed the incredibly qualified doctor's return wouldn't jeopardise the news he had officially received moments before. "These are for you, Mrs. Beauchamp." Ethan outstretched the most expensive bouquet of flowers sold in the hospital shop. "I would have offered to buy you a round at the pub but…" he awkwardly stammered, and practically pointed at her swollen baby bump. The heavy atmosphere between Sam and Connie shoved an immense pressure down his throat and threatened nausea. "Perhaps, I could buy you dinner instead."

"That would be lovely, Dr. Hardy." Connie pleasantly smiled, if only to irritate Sam all the more. "Thank you very much."

"No, thank _you_. Without you, I would never have passed my consultancy exams and I certainly wouldn't have made it past the first two minutes of that interview either." Ethan haplessly charmed his Clinical Lead, who had acted as some kind of Fairy Godmother since his brother had died.

Sam arched an eyebrow in amusement. In the winter season of his absence, Connie had apparently become the modern-day Mother Theresa equivalent. He retained that backhanded compliment for a later date, which only irritated Connie more. Meanwhile, Ethan's head flew back and forth between the two of them, as if were a spectator at Wimbledon. "Well, dinner it is then."

Flowers in hand, Connie nodded her head and directed Ethan to his escape route. "Make fun all you want," Connie chided, once Ethan had returned to cubicles for the remainder of his shift, which meant she and Sam were alone. "As of next week, Dr. Hardy will start to train as Clinical Lead for my absence." She breezily forewarned him of the ways in which the department had transformed, since he had fled to America.

"Dr. Hardy; Clinical Lead?" Sam spluttered in response.

"Yes. In recent months, Dr. Hardy has proven himself to be an extremely reliable member of the team." Connie proudly positioned a hand at the head of her bump; Sam played ball and his eyes blazed with infuriation. He choked on the sick insinuation she put forward. "Excuse me, but I have work to do." Before he could bite back, she waltzed from the office, unnaturally carefree. "Shut the door behind you."


	16. Episode Twenty-One

"You have plenty of annual leave available to you," Connie stated, as if it were _that_ simple to resolve.

Dylan barely met her eye for the entirety of the confrontation. He had practically asked for this; all shift, he had stumbled from patient to patient, until his behaviour warranted an invitation to her office. Hospital protocol advised Connie raise her concern to the board and he had personally handed her the evidence to do so; yet, Connie poured the vial of blood down the drain. After all, his practice may not have been its usual top-notch but none of his patients had been harmed by his alcohol-hindered care.

She dwelled on Dylan for much of her shift; more affirmation that addiction was a disease that left no soul untouched. Later on, she exited the department and wrapped her black, trench-style coat around her waist to protect herself from the January chill.

"Connie."

Her eyelids shut in refusal to accept the fate that had awaited her; Sam Strachan. Of all the ways her day could end…

The pace at which her Louboutins clicked increased, yet it was a futile attempt to outrun him. "Mrs. Beauchamp," he carolled her name, in the most childish mimicry of her sour mood. She lacked the drive to entertain another quarrel with him and carried on, in the direction of the car park, but Sam followed behind, like an incessant puppy as it yapped at her heel. "Where's your star pupil?" The catty reference to Ethan informed her that Sam was threatened by the newfound consultant, as did the relentless missed calls she had received.

Too exhausted to rise to the bait, Connie electronically unlocked her vehicle and opened the driver door to climb in. His arm blocked her entrance and he shut the door back into place. Her body heaved, an inhale of exasperation, "What do you want, Sam?"

"You and I need to talk." His voice started the plea, an uncommon attribute from him in any of their interaction. It was obvious that Connie wouldn't be the first to concede in their war of parenthood. "I promised Grace I would fly home but I can't do that until we sort this out."

"Get in," Connie apparently relented, and motioned him to climb in at the other side. Intimately close to one another in their respective car seat, she distracted him from the previous topic and focused on their first child. "How is Grace?" She missed the daily texts Grace sent, the endless snapchat selfies with ridiculous filters on each one.

"Worried, about you." Sam replied, honestly, "She misses you." The pre-pubescent child would never admit to as much out loud but Sam and Emma saw far beyond the transparent pretence; the days when she pretended her mother didn't matter. "But she's happy to be back at school with old friends and she's focused on her recovery. She joined the track team, and her physiotherapist has been very supportive." He reached for his iPhone and scanned his pictures for the adorable snap he had captured of Grace at after-school practice. Ever the proud parent, Connie bit her bottom lip, on the brink of tearful as she admired the picture. _How she missed that sweet face_.

The very moment Sam spied her emotion, she clammed up. She snapped back into form, "Why are you here, Sam?"

"I had some business to wrap up, the sale of the flat and so forth…" It should have been easy to sell his flat, it should have been a quick sale and it probably would have been had he not found every excuse in the book to slow the transaction down. "Plus, I promised my mother I would visit. But, predominately, I wanted to see you." Sam confessed, "Like I said, I was suspicious when you didn't visit Grace for Christmas and curiosity won over pride so here I am."

"Here you are."

There was a bitterness from her that intuited her resentment at his reappearance in her life and Sam soon realised he should have allowed Grace to accompany him on the visit, if only to dilute Connie. "You didn't expect me to leave until we'd hashed this out, did you?" He should have predicted as much from Connie. In all of the years he had known and loved or hated Connie Beauchamp, she was constant. Her stubbornness stipulated that others had to follow her rules in life and, if anyone refused, she was rattled. On the other hand, Sam had endured a cataclysmic development from the playboy junior doctor Connie had tricked into fatherhood.

Quick-tempered, Connie lost her patience with him. "I told you before that this baby is not your concern." He didn't buy her lie and Connie decided to work another tact. Her voice became friendlier and her tone more authentic. "Listen, I applaud your desire to be a father, I really do, and I would never take away from the presence you have in Grace's life. Your effort to be involved with this child, however, is misdirected."

Sam encroached on her personal space, his face inches from hers so that she could feel his breath on her face. "Yeah, and I don't believe you. If not for any other reason but the simple fact that Dr. Hardy just isn't your type." She played the martyr well, her eyes wide with innocence, and it would have worked, had Sam not fallen for it years before. "Let's not pretend. You and I both know you would happily have me believe he was the father of your child, if you could." Without doubt, he would have been dubious to believe it; Connie was infamous for her inclination toward her junior doctors but dear Ethan Hardy stretched the mind to its limit. His brother may well have fit her modus operandi and he probably would have fallen for that, too; but Cal was dead and the two brothers were chalk and cheese. The crude insinuation that Ethan had fathered her child was a creative lie but not a credible one. Beyond that, Sam was convinced Connie wouldn't have been so intent to conceal the baby from him, if he hadn't fathered it. "I played nice the first time 'round, Connie." Way back when she laboured Grace into the world, he had been naive and stupid, powerless to resist her tyrannic approach to motherhood but he didn't have the inclination for her repeat performance. "You were the one who called the shots when Grace was born. Believe me, when I say I would much rather we were civil toward one another and dealt with this like a partnership. Emma and I will be happily married in a few months time and Grace is finally settled -"

"How wonderful for you," Connie crisply complimented, possessed by envy at how beautifully life had played out for him. He wasn't alone, but she certainly would have been, if not for _her_ son. "Tell me, how happily married will you and Emma be once she finds out that her husband just can't keep his hands to himself in a stock cupboard?" _That_ was it, her tell, the authentication for him that he was on the nose.

"We were separated at the time." It was convenient but, also, true. The separation had been a mutual decision, a time-out as it were while Sam focused on Grace and her recovery from the accident. "In fact, Emma has been incredibly supportive and done her best to advise me. Fathers may well be limited in their rights to an unborn child but I do have the option to petition the court of parental responsibility _and_ a DNA test, if push comes to shove." Sam was damned if he would allow Connie to shut him out a second time, trust issues abound. "Not that I need a warrant to have one of those performed."

"Is that supposed to scare me?" Connie relied on her prowess and chortled at his intimidation technique.

"Connie, I don't want to have to do battle with you at every turn." He had scraped the bottom of the barrel for patience with Connie. "Whether you like it or not, the fact remains that you and I are about to welcome another child into the world, and I will be a part of his or her's life, even if that means I have to pack up Grace and Emma and relocate them halfway across the world to do it."

 _That_ prospect quickly endeared itself to Connie. She snarled, "This is all a bit hypocritical, don't you think, Sam? You preach to me the rules of parenthood, barely five months after you kidnapped Grace halfway across the world, without the decency to warn me first."

"Whatever decisions I made in the past were in Grace's best interest, all the way down the DNA test I had Chrissie perform on Darwin." It was a subtle reminder he could play dirty, too. In fact, he had learned from the mistress with Connie. "Do not force my hand," he warned, as he climbed out of the four-by-four and neatened his suit. "You have twenty-four hours to decide whether we resolve this privately or in court."


	17. Episode Twenty-Two

"From this point forward, I will personally oversee your portfolio in this department."

The hostility behind those words assured Bea that they were far more an irrefutable threat, than a promise. The flame-haired F1 puffed on her fifth Marlboro of the day and timidly sheltered herself from the rain at the hospital bus stop. Her first shift in the E.D. had resulted in a near-miss complaint from the relative of a patient and she had undeniably pissed off her Clinical Lead, who was incidentally one of the hottest women she had ever bowed down to in the medical profession.

At the opposite side of the paramedic track, Connie surfaced from the department and inhaled her first dose of fresh air since she had arrived nine hours beforehand. The ambulances which had previously queued up in bottleneck form had vacated the premises but the empty sky had darkened to shade of ash; a visual representation of the mood that absorbed the hospital. Staff morale had plundered to a despondent depth and Ethan had buckled under the pressure of his third trial day as Clinical Lead. Matters were only made worse by the flock of reporters that had started to circle like vultures but were hurriedly moved on by Charlie, who luckily spied them before they were able to scour a dream headline-comment from an irate patient.

"Mrs. Beauchamp, I -" Ethan advanced steadily in her direction, equally debilitated and disillusioned as she.

"Dr. Hardy," she addressed him and her disappointment in him was palpable. "What happened today was inexcusable. Do you understand?" He didn't respond, it was the best way to express that he _did_ understand. "In all my years of medicine, I have never been privy to such an inadequate show of leadership and a failure to administer basic patient care." The department had been stretched to the point that Connie was required to assist in Resus, which was exactly what her doctors advice had opposed. "I propose you find a way to prove yourself to me and the board because the theatrics witnessed here today were far from what's expected of a Clinical Lead." She secretly sympathised with Ethan and the intolerable work routine she had thrown at him. The days events were beyond his fault, more an inevitability of the crisis within the NHS but the position of Clinical Lead required a certain political skill that Ethan obviously lacked. While the hospital had been at full capacity - and, in that respect, the E.D. drew the short end of the stick - a quick phone call from Mrs. Connie Beauchamp would have swiftly resolved the matter in hand. The problem with Ethan was that he couldn't instil a sense of fear into a bunny rabbit, let alone another Clinical Lead.

"I will do _whatever_ I can to reassure my capability for the role to the board," Ethan shakily affirmed his ambition, and his desperation to impress a woman he had so admired and respected. An abrupt nod of her head received his promise and Ethan watched her stalk into the distance.

Upon her return home, Connie pulled into the drive and observed the deluxe vehicle ominously parked. Her body deflated at the unwelcome reception after a hard days work, until the front door opened and there _she_ stood. Her chest quivered in apprehension, "Grace."

It was bittersweet to have Grace in her embrace for what seemed like the first time in forever. "When dad called with the news, I just had to see you." Grace exclaimed, arms thrown around her mothers tremendously expanded waist and head fondly curled on top. Sam leaned back into the armchair with satisfaction. He had played his hand like a pro. It was the final straw for Connie, who was emotionally shattered.

The family of three conversed the hours away and Grace chirpily led their conversation, miles from the muted juvenile she had been after the accident and trial. The addition of a family-size pizza delivery perfected the reunion but exhaustion eventually overwhelmed Connie and Sam subtly hinted to Grace, who had also observed how hard her mother endeavoured to remain awake. By the time Connie had re-opened her eyes, Grace had disappeared into thin air and Sam had returned some semblance of order into the immaculate home that they had bombarded with their distinct and inherent untidiness. She shuffled upward and punched out appreciation, "Thank you."

Gratitude wasn't offered often from Connie Beauchamp, especially to him. He smiled, ever-so-faintly, "She missed you." Once Connie failed, or refused, to meet his demand, Sam contacted one of the few people who had successfully deconstructed the conundrum that was Connie. Advice received from the eternally-wise Elliot Hope was to combat Connie with the colossal weakness that was her children. Behind the brash bravado, Connie wasn't so impenetrable if Grace was involved. He hated to use Grace as a pawn but it was usually the only way in.

"She's been so adult about all of this," the mother proudly perceived, as she folded the blanket Grace had draped on top of her from the waist down. The childish tantrums Grace previously resorted to had vanished, yet they wouldn't have been all that unreasonable after Connie had, for all intents and purposes, ousted Grace from her life in favour of the new child.

Sam nodded his head, and declined to mention that Emma had acted in a therapeutic role for the seven-hour journey from New York. Grace had experienced numerous panic attacks and her first epileptic fit in months when she confided her failure to understand why Connie would be so cruel as to deceive them. Whatever rationalisation Emma offered up in Connie's defence was dismissed in a prompt fashion. "We would probably make for better parents if we followed her example." Sam satirically commentated, the opener to the atonement Connie deserved. "I shouldn't have upped and left the way I did, and I certainly shouldn't have tricked Grace into the move without your consent." He detected her body tense up with residual resentment, "I'm sorry, Connie."

Connie smiled, widely, the way she did whenever she mistrusted an intention and pondered the ulterior motive behind it. "Well, I must say, you certainly have played your cards well." Her suspicions held steadfast, "But you didn't fly Grace all the way back here for me." She sniffled away the early symptoms of a winter cold she had worked hard to avoid, "What is it; is she due in court to testify as to what a detestable mother I am?"

"Come on, Connie."

His body rocked forward and his hands held his head, when she became more ferocious. "Don't 'come on, Connie' me. You threatened me with a lawsuit, Sam." She was so accustomed to have him retaliate in whichever form he found most vicious that any other course of action was alien to her the correct response was equally conceivable.

"Connie, all I ask is to be included in my child's life." Sam pleaded, a little bit more than he was comfortable to.

The conversation was cut short when Grace padded down the staircase. Her sleeves were rolled up and the skin of her arms recently dampened, "Mum, I ran a bath for you. Lots of bubbles, just the way you like it."

After the day Connie had been subjected to, it sounded like the most heavenly way to unwind. She climbed to her feet and tenderly kissed Grace on the forehead, her hands interlaced with those Rapunzel-like tresses of brunette. The little body near hers evoked a unique happiness rarely achieved. "Thank you, baby," Connie hummed, remarkably content in that moment. She ambled up the stairs to the bathroom and slipped into her fluffy white bathrobe.

While Grace finished off the pizza, Sam pursued Connie. He softly shut the bathroom door behind him, for privacy sake. "Connie."

"Sam, please." She raised her eyes to the heavens above and prayed for the reprieve she so desperately needed.

"You don't trust me and I realise that I may be the one to blame for that -" Connie failed to retain her amusement at the statement worded in such a way that it sounded as if Sam had recently stumbled upon that particular revelation. "But I will do _whatever_ it takes to prove to you that I am committed to our son." Sam produced the developmental scan Connie had displayed on her kitchen pin-board. He had disrupted their lives and flown Emma and Grace across the Atlantic; it was a move he initially doubted but, as he admired the preview of his son, Sam felt vindicated in his decision to do so. He would have moved mountains, if required.


	18. Episode Twenty-Three

"Gracie."

Sunrise penetrated the taupe-coloured curtains on the bedroom window and Connie played with the wisps of hair that had floated onto her side of the bed. The full-body maternity support pillow Duffy had purchased for her claimed the majority of the bed space but Grace had snuck her tiny form in beside Connie. It was idyllic, if not for the fact that Sam resided in the spare room down the hall.

"The baby kicked me in the back and woke me up _twice,_ " Grace lamented, with a stretch and yawn.

"Poor you," her mother sympathetically chortled. Connie curled one hand around her belly and smiled. Her little pickle kicked from inside far more often than Grace had done and it was an enormous source of comfort for Connie. She shuffled forward and tickled Grace into full consciousness, happier than she had been in months and able to hold both of her children close.

In celebration of Grace and her return, Connie called Hanssen's office with the intention to demand the day off. It was to her wild surprise that the fruity voice of Serena Campbell answered the phone. Quickly, it transpired that Hanssen had abandoned his post as Chief Executive Officer of Holby City Hospital, in the wake of Frederick's violent destruction on Darwin. It also became apparent that the HR department had failed in their duty to circulate the e-mail to the Clinical Lead, which she furiously scrolled for confirmation. All the while, Serena, for all her capability and experience, sounded entirely overwhelmed. The hospital had been driven to its absolute brink and the press would have a field day for quite some time, or so she predicted. Nevertheless, Serena was supportive when Connie requested her maternity leave be advanced and she be released from her duties for an indefinite period. Grace subtly eavesdropped on her mothers end of the phone-call, discretely pleased her mother had prioritised her family over the hospital. Business concluded, they rolled out of bed and trampled down to the kitchen, to discover a note from Sam that explained he had departed early to run an errand. Connie vocally presumed whatever it was involved Emma, who had stayed with Audrey to allow them an uninterrupted family reunion. Connie and Grace passed by the early hours in a flurry of pancake batter and maple syrup; it was a favourite cuisine of theirs, second only to pizza. They eventually crashed and burned in front of the television, wrapped in a heavy-knit, white blanket on the sofa and Connie selected the E.R. boxset for endless re-runs of her all-time favourite series. Grace facetiously rolled her eyes, whenever her mother playfully drooled over the handsome Dr. Ross, who routinely appeared in HD quality on the wide-screen.

As an episode concluded, Grace lowered the volume and curiously examined her mother's expression. She was characteristically pre-occupied with her iPhone. Its screen was positioned so that Grace could just about read provocative title of " _Are we safe_?" and the block, bold capital letters were worse than letters written in red ink. The article written anonymously online had accumulated a frenzy of media attention, if the daily newspaper folded on the coffee table was any worthwhile indication. Its headline ridiculed the hospital, particularly her mothers department, and the visceral attack had evidently inflicted injury to her mothers psyche. "Maybe you should check in on work," Grace advised, ten times the adult her mother dreamed she would be.

Connie snapped her head upward, and resistantly shook it, with a distracted mumble. "Dr. Hardy can cope without me." She stated; and, if he couldn't, he would have to learn to. Charlie sent orderly updates from the hospital, and each one etched another line of concern to her forehead. Every time her screen lit up, Connie viewed the date and winced; she despised February from the depths of her heart. She always seemed to lose her mind, a little. It was the aftermath of winter in the NHS - undeniably, their busiest season - combined with the anniversary of her fathers death, which always loomed upon her for weeks in advance.

"It's fine, mum." Grace reassured. She was acutely aware that her neurotically workaholic mother had little control over her need to control, odd as it may have sounded. "Dad said he would be back in the next hour; I will be fine on my own until then." Her mother plucked the iPhone from her hand to read the text from Sam herself but quickly dismissed the idea. She needed to reach an effective balance between medicine and motherhood. Another episode started but halfway into the open theme, Grace paused the scene and broke the silence between them with the question Connie had anticipated since her arrival. "Why didn't you tell us about the baby?" The answer cruelly eluded Connie, most likely because the _real_ question was why she had failed to inform Grace. "Were you scared?" It was the unlikeliest of emotions for someone as fierce as her mother to have experienced, but Grace lacked another valid excuse.

"Maybe, just a little." Connie admitted what she would ordinarily refuse to, but Grace held an exceptionally special place in her heart.

"Were you scared of dad?" Grace queried, still unsophisticated to the twisted way in which her parents communicated. Her eyes were untrained, and all she could see was a hate-hate relationship that only deepened, and worsened, over time.

Connie cackled atrociously at the notion. Sam had certainly matured from the boyish man-child he had first been on Darwin but he didn't have the dexterity to strike fear in her soul. Ironically, the only person in the world with the ability to do that was Grace. The eleven-year old child terrified her mother to her very core. The worst was yet to come, however, when Grace would eventually realise her power and undoubtedly abuse it, even if in the most unintentional ways. "Your father evokes a multitude of emotions, but fear is not one of them." Her mothers response captivated Grace and she falsified a small smile, as if she fully understood. The technicalities of her parents relationship were harder to solve than a rubix cube in its most devilish form.

Hours passed and, eventually, Sam returned later than promised, to discover Connie and Grace reclined on the sofa. While the pre-teen fixated on her iPhone, Connie had fallen asleep under the warmth of the fluffy owl-shaped hot water bottle Grace favoured when unwell. In such dormant form, Connie seemed harmless and Sam couldn't help but notice how vulnerable she looked. How beautiful, too. Indistinct snores exhaled from her freckled nose and her head tilted toward Grace's shoulder for pillow-like support. The iPhone on her lap was thankfully on silent, so it didn't beep or buzz whenever it intermittently lit up with another notification from work.

"Gracie, have you done your exercises today?" Sam inquired, and Grace classically avoided his eye. She hated physiotherapy exercises with a passion. They were the bane of her life. Her father raised an eyebrow in the rare character of stern parent, the one her mother usually played. "Go on, Grace. You know how important they are to keep your recovery on track."

In her old bedroom, immaculately cleaned, Grace realised that it had been untouched since her departure. The exception, however, was the soft white rabbit toy she had earlier found at her mothers bedside. While she worked with the resistance band she despised, thirty minutes passed in relative silence until the raised voices of her mother and father floated upward. She should have known the prospect of peace wouldn't last. Hesitant, she descended the stairway and eavesdropped on the heated conversation that suffocated the air out of the house and her chest. "Just admit it, Connie, you should have called me the moment you found out." Her father sounded more like a child mid-tantrum than an adult with an appeal for truth and mother retaliated with an equally immature response.

The bicker between them ceased and Grace realised it was because she had entered the room. "Hi, sweetheart," her mother forced a smile.

"Don't stop on my account." Grace permitted them to continue. Her parents appeared stunned, embarrassed under her watchful eye, as she raided the kitchen cupboard for a snack. The cupboards were filled with superfoods, natural produce and there wasn't a crisp packet visible.

Sam scratched at the stubble on his chin, disconcerted by her scorn in her tone. "Your mum and I were just -"

"- about to kiss and make up." She mocked, a fatal interruption to whatever phoney excuse her father intended to placate her with. The ridicule caused Connie to choke, and Sam scowled at her with his most childish pout. He didn't like to be made fun of, especially not by the two of them. "You know, when the baby's born, you two will have to at least _pretend_ to be adults?" Grace chided them, and they mirrored one another with expressions of innocence. The humour waned from the conversation, when her tone became more serious. "You can't throw him back and forth like a toy all the time." Sam and Connie swallowed the respective lumps in their throat. Their eldest child was most intuitive and both had pondered what kind of co-parent compromise they could reach that didn't involve their son thrown from continent to continent. He would surely lose half his life to the time-warp. "My little brother deserves better than that." Grace condemned the inadvertent chaos their hostility had impacted onto her childhood, because - the truth of it was - Grace was worn out. Whenever she subjected herself to the newest reality her parents created, they switched the rules and re-drew the contract. Her happiness at the unconventional family of three they had become was short-lived, when her mother requested that her father return her to America, but she had accepted it, and conformed to live with her father once more to appease the demand of Connie Beauchamp. Yet, here they were, back in Holby under the promise of a new child.

Choked up - and, this time with emotion - Connie enveloped Grace into her arms, teary-eyed. "So do you, sweetheart." She had been moved around from pillar to post, as Audrey had mercilessly commentated when Sam and Grace returned to America. There were times when Connie had been too wrapped up in herself and her war with Sam, to really appreciate how topsy-turvy Grace's childhood must have felt. "I love you so much," she whimpered, as the tears started to fall.

"I love you, too. I just want us to be a family," Grace bravely petitioned.

"We always have been, Gracie." It was rare to witness Connie so emotional, so much so that it caused Sam to interject. He softly brushed Grace's hair while his other hand found its way to the small of Connie's back. "An unorthodox one, but a family, nonetheless."


	19. Episode Twenty-Five

Elle Gardner raised an emphatic eyebrow toward her Clinical Lead. Little did she think she would ever miss Connie.

The face of puzzlement from Ethan failed to rouse her confidence, when he implored, "Give me half an hour and I can find out." He barrelled in the direction of the Chief Executive Office for the impromptu appointment Serena Campbell had ordered, hopefully to explain why patients had been transferred from the Clinical Decisions Unit. It was another point at which his authority had been compromised. He had already been cross-examined by the powers that be and in constant fear that his amateur leadership would be labelled as malpractice. All in all, it was safe to say that his latest try-out in Connie Beauchamp's Louboutins hadn't been any old walk in the park.

The doors of the lift he occupied opened out on level two and the former Clinical Lead monopolised his line of vision. "M-Mrs. Beauchamp -" he nervously spluttered her name and Connie pierced his chest with her hazel eyes of steel.

She swept into the lift, clad in the loose-fit, maternity jumpsuit she had worn to the antenatal class attended moments before. "Hello, Dr. Hardy," she addressed him in her most formal tone. He braced himself for her to rain due hell on him. His discomfort, however, was multiplied by the silent abyss the lift became while it leisurely ascended to the sixth floor of the hospital.

He verbalised his internal realisation, "You were the one behind the CDU decision."

"The board asked my opinion," Connie answered, truthfully, as she dazed at the numbered buttons on the wall of the lift. "You lent out E.D. resources for free." Her hair was drawn back, half-up half-down and it accentuated her sculpted cheekbones for a resplendent appearance. The NHS may as well have been her own monarchy to rule, for even the imminent birth of her child didn't dissuade her influence on the hospital.

The accusation in her words riled him and Ethan stiffly shook his head, "The last time I checked, we're all on the same side." He disliked the insinuation that there was a divide between departments within the hospital.

Connie, on the other hand, was less enamoured. "Who told you that, Jac Naylor?" There was spite in her smile, as she aimed her sadistic mirth at his predicament. "She's played you beautifully, hasn't she?" It was small victory for Connie that finally one of the her team appreciated her efforts and the difficulties she was forced to overcome as their Clinical Lead. Nobility had no worth in the role and his naivety had shoved him all the way down to the bottom of the food chain.

"No, I think it's the best decision for the hospital."

He swallowed the sense of dread, when the lift doors vaulted open and he stalked her to the Chief Executive Office. That would be _just_ his luck. He zoned out of the warm welcome they received into the office and zombie-walked to the seat offered. Each second, his instinct pleaded with him to run a mile. When he finally rejoined the universe of consciousness, he found himself sat opposite Serena Campbell and beside Connie Beauchamp; two positions he was recklessly misplaced for as much as Clinical Lead. His face was flushed beetroot and he received a sudden appreciation for those who suffered at the hands of claustrophobia. "The board have assured me that last weeks performance will not affect your position as a consultant here."

His chest deflated, mollified, "Thank you, Miss Campbell."

Connie shrivelled her nose in disdain at his wimpish response and Serena pushed her two hands into one palm. "Don't thank me yet. I'm not quite finished," she warned, and her eyes flickered between him and Connie. There was an odd power-play type relationship between them that she had not yet deciphered. "Mrs. Beauchamp and I have concurred that its best the Clinical Decisions Unit be shut down effective immediately, which may just placate the beast that is social media. With that said, Dr. Hardy," Serena shifted uncomfortably under Connie's suspicious, watchful eye. "I think it's safe to say that the E.D. cannot continue under your leadership in Mrs. Beauchamp's absence." She recalled stories from Elliot Hope and Ric Griffin, both of whom reported how Connie very nearly delivered her first baby in a Darwin theatre, and returned to work within hours of the prematurely defibrillator-induced birth; and she concluded with, "However temporary that may be." They were hardly acquaintances but Serena was well aware that the queen bee was a major control freak; it was why she had purposefully invited her to discuss the solution she had reached.

Connie, who had privately resolved she would return to work within six weeks of the birth, articulated her displeasure. Thankfully, Serena had accepted her firm insistence that Dylan not be considered, without a real explanation as to _why_ but it meant that the options for Ethan's replacement were limited. Even Elle had admitted the position was not one her shoulders could burden. "Who would you propose?"

"Unfortunately, I have been unable to convince Dr. Gardner to temporarily assume the position. As a result, I have had to source somebody suitably qualified for the role externally; however, I am certain you will find him an acceptable replacement." At that moment, a direct knock announced his arrival and Serena motioned her head toward the doorway for Connie and Ethan to welcome the new Deputy Clinical Lead. She shuffled the pile of incomplete, overdue paperwork that her newfound position had burdened her shoulders with. "Mrs. Beauchamp, Dr. Hardy, I believe you know Mr. Strachan."

The reverberations of Sam Strachan's second unwelcome return to Holby City were experienced far and wide within the hospital, as he pursued Connie from the Chief Executive Office. He was milli-seconds too late to halt the lift she occupied and bolted down the stairwell to intercept her at reception. He breathlessly sprinted behind, "Connie?" She moved curiously fast for a woman only month away from the birth of her second child. "Please," he implored her to stop. His hand reached out and pulled softly at the crook of her elbow to slow her speed.

"Get your hands off of me." Connie snatched her arm back, infuriated.

For once, Sam understood the root of her ire. "I'm sorry, I should have talked to you first, okay?" It was a rookie mistake on his part.

She scoffed, "I don't know why. It's not your style, is it; to communicate?" _How many times would she be fooled by him?_ Her pride was fatally wounded. All around, staff paused their duties to observe the verbal altercation between their former and soon-to-be Clinical Lead. In the brief time Connie and Ethan had spent in Serena's office, the site maintenance team had replaced the name on the door of the office. It didn't feel quite as temporary as Ethan's position had.

"You're a fine one to talk," Sam defensively retorted. By this point, Ethan had rejoined the department and appeared somewhat dazed, while Alicia sensitively patted him on the back. He could only be thankful that the hardship of the department and the wrath of Connie was lifted from his unsteady shoulders. "What _exactly_ is the problem?" For all Sam could tell, it was a win-win. The recent controversy would die down, and she would reap the benefit of a relatively peaceful maternity leave with their son. She could return to work whenever she saw fit and there would be a likely chance the department would still be in order with him at the helm.

"You, Sam. _You_ are the problem," Connie barked, her eyes physically narrowed but, intuitively, wide-open to him. His failure to disclose his acceptance of the position was a reminder of his underhanded nature in their relationship.

Sam couldn't help but find the hilarity in the situation. "I should have known better than to expect a little bit of appreciation from you."

"Oh, please." She mocked him, "The _only_ reason you're still here is this baby. Period. In fact, I wouldn't put it past you to concoct another little scheme to snatch him away from me the moment he's born. You and your precious fiancee have probably been in cahoots this whole time." Sam relented in a reaction for her to feed off. Given his previous actions, it wasn't a massive leap but, nevertheless, he was sincerely hurt she would presume him to have such a devious and ulterior motive.

"Uh, folks -" Charlie finally butted in, to break up the Punch-and-Judy theatrics witnessed for public consumption. "I don't think this is the time or place to exercise this particular demon, do you?" He carefully chaperoned them toward the Clinical Lead office.

"No, you know what," Connie paid little attention to the nurse and pinpointed her fury at Sam. "You want the department so bad, fine. Take it, it's yours. You practically stole Grace from me. Why did I think Clinical Lead would be beneath you?" There were times when she truly underestimated him and the depths he would dive to, simply to humiliate her more. "But, if you think I will ever let you near _my_ son, you had better think twice."


	20. Episode Twenty-Seven

"I trust that, in future, you will follow the official channels made available to you should you have any concerns about the department."

Sam reeled off an ever-professional script and Alicia bowed her head, oh-so-humiliated; not to mention desperate to escape the scowl from the Clinical Lead of Darwin. The flame-haired Jac Naylor emulated Connie with all the expertise and precision one would have expected from a world-class cardiothoracic surgeon. As Alicia stalked from Connie's office, she couldn't help but wonder whether Sam reaped a warped sense of pleasure from the discipline. In any case, her hand had been forced; she would never have confessed, if not for the fact that Sam had traced the patients discussed online to the ones she mentored Rash with.

"I must say I am impressed," Jac applauded, an ever-playful smirk present. "I'm sure Connie will be, too." She had practically read his mind, as Sam punched out a quick text to Connie with an update. She probably wouldn't reply, in fact, he was certain she wouldn't. Since his faux-pas, his only responsive point of contact was Grace. Even so, it was a point in his favour if Connie learnt he had rescued the department from its PR hell. At the very least, it would retract Serena Campbell and members of the board, all of whom demanded that his most prominent duty as Clinical Lead be the eradication of the anonymous site. "Drinks to celebrate?"

"I wish I could," Sam tucked his personal iPhone into his left breast pocket. "But I am on the hunt for an apartment." To live in his mothers home for more than a month was mentally unsustainable and the purchase of a home in Holby would reaffirm his intent to stick around; another brownie point, as far as Connie was concerned. Any reservations would have to be flat-packed and shoved into the deepest, darkest basement of emotion he could summon because there was very little probability Grace would happily return to America, and absolutely zero likelihood that Connie would allow him to skip off into the sunset with their children. It wasn't that Sam particularly desired the life of an eternal bachelor - or of lone parent, for that matter - but he simply couldn't envision an happily-ever-after with Connie. It was a pipe dream, at best. Grey hairs at his temples reminded Sam of the previous heartache he and Connie had buried each other alive with. "Besides, I promised Grace I would pop by after work." His little spy reported that Connie had suffered many a headache in the recent week. He wasn't too worried, since it was a common symptom for a mother with pre-eclampsia but, nevertheless, he decided it best to check in.

By 4pm, Sam had reached the finish line of his shift and made a beeline for the car park. After a brief stop at his mothers home, which wasted more time than he had hoped, Sam sped across town and into the driveway of Connie's stately home.

"Sam." She wasn't happy to see him, that much was obvious from the way she shifted to her left foot.

"Hi," he flashed a cheeky smile that Grace had inherited. Like butter wouldn't melt; it was almost irresistible. "Can I come in?"

"No." There was no waver in her response and he suspected she would have slammed the door in his face if she had the ability to overpower his foot, which rested firm on the doorstep to prop it open. Yet, there was an aura of playfulness about her attitude.

"Come on, Con." Sam beseeched her philanthropic heart, "I have a surprise for Grace… for you, too." Her eyebrow raised, red alert for the snippy remark she conjured up in her mind - she had received _more_ than her fair share of surprises from Sam Strachan - but lady luck was on his side, because Grace poked her head around the corner at the sound of her fathers voice. "Hi, kiddo. Go have a look in the boot." Sam chucked his keys at Grace when she inquired about the surprise she had eavesdropped on.

Connie tentatively hovered on the doorstep while Grace opened the boot of the Mercedes and a ball of fur bounded out the car and into her embrace. "Simba." Grace stuck her face forward, as she received many a lick from the playful pup, who eventually scooted toward Connie and barked at her heels for attention.

"Hello, you." She crouched down as best she could and stroked Simba. He had doubled in size since Sam had him flown to America.

"Gracie, why don't you see if you can find his old lead? We can walk him around the lake." Simba trailed behind Grace, as she wandered inside to search and Sam steeled himself for the inevitable scold. He had thrown another surprise at Connie once more. "Don't be upset. I should have told you first," he readily admitted. "The truth is that it was as much a surprise to me." He lowered his line of vision to avoid her eye when Connie frowned, in confusion. "Emma and I, we decided to separate _permanently._ She had Simba flown over from New York. Every cloud," he muttered and his shoulders slumped. Their break-up had been an amicable one, the best he had ever experienced, in fact. British life simply didn't sit well with Emma and it was obvious to her that his priorities were his children… and Connie.

"I'm sorry," Connie lied, for she truly didn't care. What little interaction she had with Emma was as her patient. She was a pleasant woman and possessed an enviable intellect, but her departure allowed for a little more simplicity.

Sam placed his hands on his hips, "It's for the best. Anyway, it means the three of us are here to stay _indefinitely._ " At that, Connie smiled softly, careful not to express too much happiness in case he felt that compulsion to snatch it back. "There's just one minor detail. My mother refused to have Simba." Connie rolled her eyes, unsurprised by Audrey's reluctance to house the rambunctious pet. She was far from the kind of woman to own a pet, and Connie could relate to that; she would have refused, if not for Grace. Her firstborn transformed her life dramatically whenever she re-entered its orbit, so much so that Connie didn't have to think twice.

"I suppose he will just have to stay here with Grace and I," she submissively accepted. "You, on the other hand, are not welcome. I think it's important we not confuse Grace any more than we already have." The last statement was intended to the lessen the harsh blow of her decision to shut him out for the hundredth time.

"No, of course not." Sam physically backtracked from the doorstep.

"You did well today." Her compliment was a reluctant one. Another emotional u-turn in their conversation; ironically symbolic of the relationship they shared - in and out, shake-it-all-about.

"All in a days work," he played it off. Internally, however, he was elated that she had, at least, read his text. It spurred him onward. "Listen, Connie, about Clinical Lead -" Her face darkened, and he paused, "I didn't mean to blindside you." He could have been struck down with a feather when Serena Campbell phoned with the proposal - obviously, the C.E.O. was well-informed - and, while his initial instinct had been a firm rejection, the realisation that it permitted the means to remain in Holby City convinced him to accept. In retrospect, it was plain to se that he should have conferred with Connie first. He wondered whether he would ever truly learn his lesson that impulsive moves were the worst possible decision, when it involved Connie in any shape or form.

Grace bound down the stairs with Simba behind, "Found his lead." She clipped it onto his collar and tip-toed to peck her mother on the cheek. "See you in a bit, mum."

The three of them returned an hour later with cold hands and muddy footprints. Grace hurried inside the house to warm herself up, after the unexpected downpour of rain. "Hi, babe." Connie wrapped her hands around a cup of herbal tea. Simba padded in and plotted himself by the fireplace. "Look at you, you mucky pup," she chortled. In the hours that followed, Connie and Grace curled up on the sofa with Simba content at their feet; the entire time Connie paid little attention to the blinding headache that pierced each temple. _Three more weeks…_


	21. Episode Thirty

Glen had been dead for little over an hour when the paramedics offloaded Connie from the ambulance.

It was a frenzied blur of alarm for the team, as Grace relayed for the second time that her mother had suffered yet another headache. It was worse than the ones before, to the point that her vision was compromised and Connie instructed Grace to dial 999. The paramedics arrived in time for Connie to fall into seizure and Grace abandoned her mother for the brief thirty seconds it required to retrieve the hospital duffel upstairs they had jointly packed. It was overloaded with items all mothers-to-be were advised to have readily available, if Pinterest was any kind of source to rely upon. This was not the labour experience Grace had anticipated. "Will she be okay?"

Charlie held his breath for the third catastrophe of the blessed day that held such promise. Ethan and Jacob wheeled Connie into Resus bay 3, and Sam held Grace firmly by the shoulders, "Gracie, I need you to wait in the office." The criticality in his tone convinced Grace not to bicker with him and she dutifully followed his instruction.

"Can you hear me, Mrs. Beauchamp?"

Ethan shone a medical torch into the eye he had probed half-open. She was semi-conscious and irritable under his care. "I'd like her on a Magnesium-Sulphate drip and let's also put some fluids in."

The team worked valiantly to stabilise Connie and prevent another seizure. The OBGYN on-call quickly confirmed that the pre-eclampsia had developed, and the best course of treatment would be to deliver the baby via caesarean section. It was a mere three days ahead of the natural due date and assured the safety of both the mother and child. Theatre was prepped within minutes and Duffy swiftly replaced her pale pink dress with blue scrubs; she was authorised to remain with Connie for the duration, which appeased Charlie and Sam, both of whom Connie demanded stay behind with Grace. The pre-teen had been steady as a rockford the ambulance ride but Connie was certain that the adrenaline would wear off and Grace would crumble under the pressure. She needed assurance that someone would be there when that happened, that way she could focus all efforts on her son. "Promise you won't leave her, Sam." Connie battled the invisible force that pinned her down to the bed. It was hard to trust Sam Strachan at the best of times, let alone when she had no other choice but to do so.

"I promise." He followed the stretcher until he could no more and prayed Connie would be able to keep the same promise.

Connie writhed under the stream of blurred illumination. Holby City was her hospital, her territory but, nevertheless, there was always a certain unease whenever she was the one in need of treatment. It was the old stereotype; doctors were the worst patient. "Count backward from one hundred, please." An anaesthetist Connie had worked with many a time before instructed her and she barely reached 96 before full blackout.

The operation was a relatively simple one and successful, as Duffy reported later on. Assurance that mother and baby were on an unhindered road to recovery lifted the spirits of the team, who wearily followed Charlie's directive to retire to their respective homes and rest. The entire 24 hours had drained them all, but the law of emergency medicine meant they would need to be on top of their game by the time their next shift rolled around; Mrs. Beauchamp would accept no excuses on her behalf, no matter how well-intended. Fairly soon, the staff room emptied out, and the hurricane of emotions Charlie had held off finally washed over him.

In the time Connie recuperated in her private recovery room, Sam and Grace were permitted to meet the newborn. He was dopey from the transmitted effects of the anaesthetic but perfect in every other respect. Unlike Grace, who had always resembled Sam to the utmost, the baby boy was the spit of Connie. His chubby cheeks were rounded to perfection and a handful of freckles accented his otherwise porcelain skin, like constellations in the darkest of skies. "Was I that small?" Grace inquisitively peered into the hospital cot.

"You were even smaller than that," her father corrected, one arm curled around her shoulders.

As dawn breached the horizon and the shimmer of the sunrise filtered between the blinds, Sam and Grace wandered across the road to the coffee shop that opened at 5am. It was doubtful Connie would wake for another hour or so, and caffeine was all that would sustain Sam.

"Sam… G-Grace…"

Connie awoke to dizziness and her stomach violently lurched. "You're okay." His voice soothed her as it always had, and she leaned into the arm that helped her sit up and empty the contents of her stomach into the sick bowl provided. Jacob's palm drew circles across her back.

"Where is he?" Connie spluttered, "Where's my son?"

She seemed as if she would hurl herself out of bed and hunt the entire hospital for her child. To say she was _out of sorts_ was an understatement. His jovial smile disappeared, as her blood pressure spiked and she yanked at the drip attached to her arm in a bid for freedom. Jacob's heart rate slowed when Charlie entered with the newborn child. "It's okay, Connie. He's here." Charlie lifted the baby from the hospital cot and transferred him into her shaky embrace.

"Look at those sweet cheeks," Jacob transferred his old term of endearment for Connie to the newborn.

Connie drank in the sublime vision of him, the faint ruddy hue at the peak of his cheeks and the way his scrunched up face relaxed when she traced the shape. "He's perfect," she whimpered, exhausted and enamoured. Any fears for the health of her baby, the heart-stricken panic when her eyes betrayed her had all left her mind. He truly was perfect. Thank God.

"Mum, you're awake." Grace tossed her breakfast muffin away and darted to her mothers bedside. She threw her arms around Connie's neck and buried her face in the mass of curls. She couldn't shake the vision of her mother unresponsive on the floor and how her body had convulsed in seizure.

"Hello, baby," Connie brushed her lips on Grace's face and curled her free arm around the petite waist. When Grace had been born, her capacity for love doubled; with the birth of her son, it undoubtedly tripled. Whereas any romantic relationship simply felt like another point of weakness, the openness to vulnerability where it concerned her children mattered little. It was a freeze-frame moment, a time in which Mrs. Connie Beauchamp could have died a happy woman.

Jacob spied Sam in the doorway and realised he had inadvertently stolen the place of the newfound father of three. They were chalk-and-cheese, yet they shared a personal interconnection because of Connie, and it had only fuelled an inevitable rivalry between the Head Nurse and Clinical Lead; Jacob's maverick style often butted heads with Sam's debonair-type charm. Jacob distanced himself from Connie and Grace and wandered toward Sam, his hand respectfully stretched forward. "You're a lucky man," he complimented, before Charlie ushered him out the room to allow the Beauchamp-Strachan family of four to bond.

Sam was reluctant to rush in, instead he cautiously sauntered closer to Connie and admired his son from the safe distance. He had purposely refused the nurses offer to hold his son, determined that his mother be the first one to have the pleasure.

In the hours of hospital observation, the family cooed over their newest addition. "When can we take him home?"

"Soon, Grace." Her father mollified her as best he could, as she curled into her mothers embrace with the newborn asleep in the nearby cot.

Grace's patience had worn thin after nearly twelve hours in the hospital with little sleep. Connie peered over at the unhappy little face and quickly concocted a solution to the problem. "You know what would be really helpful? If you and your dad popped home and made sure we have all the essentials, you know; nappies, baby wipes, rash cream…" Connie reeled off a list of items she had most definitely already purchased - and stocked up to last for the first month, at least - but Grace was the type who needed to be needed.

"Okay."

"Sam," Connie quietly beckoned Sam, while Grace collected her coat from the back of the armchair for hospital visitors. Before she could whisper an instruction to ensure Grace rested, the clatter of Grace's limp body to the cold floor disrupted her and Connie cried out, "GRACE!"


	22. Episode Thirty-One

" _It was a simple case of a low blood sugar_." Dylan's matter-of-fact tone should have dissuaded Connie from further concern. After all, she trusted his medical expertise as much as she did her own. He had been one of the first responders on the scene at the accident. He had sedated her, in spite of her incoherent refusal, and he had ensured both she and Grace reached Holby City Hospital alive.

"Don't overreact." Friendly advice from Sam left his mouth more like a desperate plea and hit Connie's ears as a red-note on her approach to motherhood. Her lips formed the infamous Beauchamp-sneer but Sam was oblivious to the non-verbal response.

Connie flipped another one onto the pile of American pancakes she had stacked. Her kitchen had been transformed into a breakfast buffet, the likes of which could probably have been found at The Hilton. She wiped the flour dust from her forehead with the back of her hand. She had slept so poorly, and would have done so anyway under duress, even if not for the one-week old, little sleep thief, who had invaded her house. "You heard what Dylan said. She hadn't eaten a proper meal in almost 12 hours," Connie parroted the likely cause for the momentary collapse. "I don't care what you say, that's not normal." She should have paid more attention. She started to wonder what else she had missed.

"She was worried about you -"

"So it's my fault," Connie misinterpreted his intention. She always did, wherever it concerned Grace.

"I didn't say that," he backtracked. He hadn't treaded so carefully with Connie in years. It was like unchartered terrain. "It's nobody's fault. Look, this is the first time this has happened. She's under a lot of stress; she's due back at school after the Easter break."

Connie heavily exhaled. He made a valid point. In the space of nine weeks, Grace had flown halfway across the world to learn she would become an older sister _and_ acted as a major diffuser for the tension between her parents; perhaps it had all been too much. It wasn't hard to believe, after all she had endured the previous summer; the memories made Connie's head spin. "Maybe…"

"Hi." A meek voice broke the sudden silence and Grace appeared in her pyjamas. Maybe all Grace needed was rest, a little peace and quiet.

"Hello, darling," her mother smiled softly.

Grace immediately neared the Moses basket in the quiet corner and cooed over the peaceful child. "Hi, Henry." The name suited him so very well. Connie had briefly considered a name which would honour her father or even Alfred, who she continuously dreamed of, but it wasn't her style; to taint her future with the shadows of her past. She was plenty haunted by the ends from which she had come.

"Pancakes?" Connie cheerily motioned to the plate. She had already snacked on two. The threat of a mum-tum was very real.

Pumped full with nutrition and the necessary vitamins to replenish her body, Grace wasn't even close to peckish. But, she feared her mother would only fuss more if she didn't eat. "Only if you have maple syrup."

"I have maple syrup and bacon, I have bananas and Nutella, I have whipped cream…" Sam and Grace chuckled, safe in the confirmation that Connie Beauchamp was not a woman who worked with the understated. "What?" Connie blurted out, sure she had missed the joke.

Grace shook her head, amused, "I love you, mum."

Sam watched Grace peck her mother's cheek and instantly relaxed. The tendency Connie had to burst in and fire with both barrels was one Grace automatically shied away from, but the atmosphere was a pretty positive one. "Well… I am late for work," he checked his watch and leapt from the kitchen stool. "The new C.E.O. is due to visit the department, and I've been advised to impress her or else." Connie raised an eyebrow at his readiness to heel. Sam lifted his briefcase and paused, "Should I… pop by later?" In their chaotic circumstance, he and Connie still hadn't discussed their situation. How _it_ would work, how they would successfully co-parent their two children. He had slept over for their first night at home but it was surely not an effective long-term solution.

Connie murmured a positive response, as she drank from her coffee cup. Grace smiled, behind a bitten bottom lip. "Bye, dad."

The hours flew by for Connie and Grace, who entertained her mother with all sorts of silly activities on her iPad. They established that Connie was the ENTJ personality type - 'The Commander' - and Grace was the INFJ kind - 'The Advocate'. In the Harry Potter universe, that meant Grace would be a part of House Ravenclaw while Connie would join House Slytherin. Connie firmly drew the line at the Buzzfeed questionnaire to determine which Kardashian-Jenner sister she would be. By 9pm, she tucked Grace in for a hopefully uninterrupted sleep.

"How's the department?" Connie queried, when Sam returned later on. Confidence was not instilled when Sam clamped his eyes shut, worn down by the role of Clinical Lead. It wasn't that there was a problem, as such; but he had severely underestimated just how hard Connie worked.

"Staff Nurse Masters informed me of his decision to step down from the position," Sam explained, "Charlie's reapplied for the role."

"Good," Connie reacted positively. There was no one better than Charlie Fairhead to support the Clinical Lead. His experience was second to none, and his wisdom had rescued her from more than a few scenarios over the years. Whatever state the E.D. should lull to in her absence, she would have to haul it like a phoenix from the ashes once more, and Charlie would be a steady hand Connie could rely on. "You look tired."

"Thanks," he wryly replied.

It had been non-stop for all of them. No wonder Grace had collapsed, when her father was on the brink of one himself. He was here, there and everywhere in an effort to be present at the hospital and a support system for Connie and Grace. "Why don't you stay here?"

"No, I can't. I have an early start, and -"

"I meant, _permanently_." His head shot up and Connie scrambled to backtrack, "Well… **temporarily** but… _permanently_." It was a calculated move. She would be able to oversee the department, via Sam, and it would be more beneficial to Henry and Grace. "I have a spare room. You would be closer to the hospital here and you'd have more access to Henry and Grace."

"You're serious?" He realised, dumbfounded. After all her effort to extract him, this was a quick turnaround. He had prepared himself for another few months of icy cold demeanour and uncomfortable interaction. His voice was strained, "Connie…"

"Sleep on it," she advised, wary of his potential rejection. Sam wearily nodded his head, kissed Henry on the forehead and slipped out. Connie securely locked the front door behind him and overheard a wheeze-like noise from the upstairs bathroom. "Gracie, are you okay?" No response came and Connie padded up the stairs, "Grace." She knocked on the bathroom door with deep concern, "Grace."

"I'm fine, mum."

Unconvinced, Connie hovered outside until Grace appeared, cold water thrown over her face to liven up her complexion. "Are you sick?" Connie pressed the back of her hand to Grace's forehead; there was little warmth, it was cooler than the standard temperature.

"I said I'm fine." Grace sportively rolled her eyes, "I just had a tickle in my throat. Don't be such a worry wart." Grace flashed her mother an irresistible smile and returned to the sanctuary of her bedroom. Connie reflected the smile but it was strained. Lately there was a heaviness in her heart where it concerned Grace; she had lost the aura of precociousness about her and it was replaced with an artificial sense of maturity that didn't sit naturally in childhood. Connie prayed it was no more than the universal desire of every child to blossom into adulthood too fast.


	23. Episode Thirty-Two

"Fuss, fuss, fuss…" Connie whispered into Henry's ears, as she softly rocked him back and forth. He was the fussiest baby she had ever known. Granted, she hadn't known that many but he was certainly fussier than Grace. "Mummy's little fusspot," she tickled herself with that nickname. He cried, despite the steady flow of milk from her breast, and the stifled sobs ordinarily echoed around the house, which was partially the reason Connie had started to tend to him downstairs. Sam and Grace slept soundly without the disturbance.

After what Henry deemed a suitable measure of attention, he drifted off to sleep and Connie planted him into the Moses basket. She returned her focus to the papers spread out on the marble coffee table and her eyes strained in the absolute darkness Henry required to sleep well. Simba rested at her feet, unequivocally loyal ever since Connie had involuntarily become his primary walker in the house.

A while later on, the persistent rustle of movement from the kitchen bewildered Simba and he peered up at Connie for reassurance of the noise. Connie frowned, it was nearly 3am. Stalked by the hassled pet, her bare feet silently transported her into the kitchen to seek out the source. "Grace?" The pre-teen froze with her back to Connie and her hand deep in the cookie jar. "Sweetheart, are you okay?" Embarrassed, Grace twisted on the spot and discarded the sweet treats she had retrieved. "You're as white as a sheet."

"Henry woke me up and I felt like a snack," Grace rambled off an excuse.

"A snack; or an all-you-can-eat-buffet?" Her mother ridiculed the extensive amount of food Grace had splattered across the surface. "Honestly, Grace, it looks like you're about to feed the five-thousand." Connie started to return items to the allocated cupboards, while Grace munched on the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she had prepared. No wonder the food disappeared so quick. Not that Connie minded all that much; when Grace had left for America, she _hated_ the weekly food shop. Despised every second of it, in fact. It was a painful reminder that she only catered for a household of one. Simple tasks in life were often the hardest, after the departure of a loved one.

"I'm sorry," Grace squeezed her shoulders upward and avoided her mothers eye.

Lines of confusion dented her forehead, as Connie processed how sensitive Grace appeared to be. "It's okay," she rubbed Grace's shoulder in an awkward fashion, somewhat out of touch with her eldest child. "You don't have to be sorry."

"Why're you down here, anyway?" Grace brushed away her mothers unintended scorn. "What's that?" She padded into the other room and nodded at the A3 paper that resembled a detailed floor plan of Holby City Hospital, as she turned on the television and muted her favourite Nickelodeon cartoon with subtitles to suffice.

"This is just a little project I have in the works," Connie muttered, cryptic in her response. "It's a development for the department." Grace appeared disappointed by the hint that her mother intended to return to work. She rather fancied the new routine they had carved out; her father at work 9-5, her mother at home and the whole family able to reflect and share the days events with one another at the dinner table. It would all blow up in smoke once her mother reinstated herself as Clinical Lead of the department. But, then Grace wondered whether her mother would ever truly be happy as _just a housewife._ "But that won't be for at least a couple of months," her mother practically read her mind. Grace polished off her sandwich and diverted her eyes to the television screen. "Gracie?" Connie candidly probed, "Be honest… did your brother really wake you up, or are you worried about school tomorrow?" It was her last week of freedom, as Grace had dramatically declared, before the dreaded return to Holby Grammar but Connie had dismissed that as mostly pre-teen satire.

Grace shook her head, "No, it's fine -"

"Because if you feel it's too soon…" It would be her first time back at Holby Grammar since the accident and Connie was aware that Grace still hadn't spoken to Carmel. That friendship had well and truly exploded, but they were still scheduled to share the majority of classes.

"It isn't too soon." And it wasn't. It was far from it. She was inherently intellectual but the painful reality was that Grace had lost almost a whole year of critical tuition, due to her extensive injuries. "I'm just…" Grace contorted her mouth and her pursed her lips, " _Nervous_."

Connie sympathetically brushed away the head of hair Grace shyly hid beneath, "Well, nerves are normal, sweetheart. If you weren't nervous, I'd be worried," she admitted. Little did Connie understand that Grace's stomach filled itself with butterflies until she was physically sick, and the physicality of that sensation simulated a warm and dependable comfort for Grace. _That_ truth was one Grace was fully unprepared to disclose to either one parent. "Just remember what I have always told you; _you_ are your only limit." Grace wearily nodded her head. Her mothers championship was the incontestable kind. "Good girl. Off to bed," Connie patted Grace from behind. "You need to be up in a few hours."

Grace returned to her bedroom, and Connie collected Henry from the Moses Basket. His sleep remarkably unhindered by the movement, Connie carried him upstairs and encountered Sam in the doorway of the spare room next to hers. "I could have sworn I heard Grace," he rubbed his eyes free of tiredness, yet his muscles continually ached.

Connie silently nodded her head, as she bypassed Sam and entered her bedroom, where she settled Henry in the bedside cot. "She said Henry woke her up," she reported, matter-of-fact, and a little dishonest in her reluctance to state that she didn't quite believe Grace.

"Is she okay?"

"Yes, she's fine." Connie didn't meet his eye, Henry her sole focus.

"Good," Sam declared, his hands tucked in his pyjama bottoms and his feet in a wide stance. "Listen, I wanted to thank you for the invitation to stay here with you and the kids…" his voice trailed off at the plural word. Two children. "It's never been easy between us, and you didn't have to extend the olive branch, as it were but I appreciate that you did." Connie held an anonymous facial expression to the compliment, unaccustomed to the amicable relationship she and Sam so rarely worked hard to experience.

"Like I said, it's what's best for Henry and Grace." Connie directly replied, business-like in her contact with him because it was a whole lot easier than the admission that she needed Sam Strachan. He was the father of her children and history indicated that they would be much happier and healthier with him around; and Connie was prepared to adhere to any sacrifice to ensure the welfare of her children.

Sam paused upon his return to the spare room. "They're lucky to have you." It felt like the most natural move in the world, when he stepped forward and leaned in until his lips met her cheek, which blushed a faint crimson at his caress.

By dawn, Henry had awoken for another feed and it allowed Connie plenty of time to prepare breakfast for Grace's first day at school.

"Eat your breakfast," she firmly instructed, and retired to the privacy of another room where she could tend to Henry's need. Grace sulked with her head in her hand, and another on the pit of her stomach, which quivered in refusal at the mention of food. Gossip circles at Holby Grammar had already announced her return; Anne and Sophie promised the reaction was neutral but her anxiety persisted.

"Five minutes, Grace," Sam breezed into the kitchen, mid-conversation with a member of the board on the phone. "I don't want to be late." He swiped an apple from the fruit bowl. "Con," he whispered, one hand over the microphone end, "Mum called, she said she would pop round to see you and Henry sometime this afternoon." His pained expression was the only show of remorse and it was a feeble one at best.

Any objection she had went unheard. Within minutes, the house had emptied and Connie re-buttoned her blouse to discover the home-cooked breakfast plate untouched by Grace and the lunch she had specifically packed, abandoned on the table.


	24. Episode Thirty-Four

The silvery tones of Charlotte Day Wilson serenaded her entrance to the hospital car park and Connie was pleasantly surprised to discover the Clinical Lead car park space empty as could be. The transition of Henry from his car seat into her hold was drawn out but the process wasn't an unfamiliar one to Connie.

Louise briefly paused, upon her own arrival at work, "Afternoon, Mrs. Beauchamp." Her all-too-pleasant smile veiled her internal bitterness that the Clinical Lead was provided a car space for free _and_ it had remained empty for weeks while she received many a fine for her rebellion.

Connie flashed the nurse a quick smile and followed her path inside the hospital. Heads turned from every direction and all attempted to peer in with adoration at the infant she carried, yet no one summoned the spirit to actually stop Connie in her track. Sam had ironically dubbed it 'The Great Wall of Connie'; _it being_ the physical block Connie had placed between her family and her staff. Very few had successfully scaled it.

Elle was the very first to observe her entrance into the department. "Wow, Connie." Her mouth dropped open and the words slipped out so quick, even Elle was stunned by her positive reaction. The Clinical Lead was a heavenly vision, already in Louboutins since the birth of her second child. It was a far cry from the all-around mess Elle had been after any one of her three boys were born. "Good to see you."

"Thank you, Dr. Gardner," Connie publicly bypassed the moment but privately celebrated what she assumed was meant as a compliment. Her confidence hadn't been at its peak lately, primarily due to the six-inch incision at her waistline. She dismissively redirected the consultant to the mass influx of patients and incessant taps of impatient feet in reception.

Connie cooly breezed between the endless stream of patients and staff, until she arrived at her office, where she discovered Sam and Charlie in the middle of an apparently deep discussion. "Well, hello." Charlie couldn't contain his awe. He rose onto both feet and his arms opened wide to envelope her in a loose embrace, mindful of Henry wrapped and strapped to her chest.

"Hi, Charlie." The peck on her cheek induced an incandescent smile and almost rid Connie of the anxiety locked in her chest… _almost._

Sam swiftly realised her unscheduled drop-in was with the intent to meet Charlie and excused himself from the office. The moment he did so, Connie retrieved the plans she had devised and Charlie appeared bewildered by the papers strewn across the desk. The enthusiasm with which Connie introduced the idea slowly dwindled at his every attempt to conceal his distaste; he evidently did not approve. She bowed her head, reminiscent of a sulky child, and Charlie smiled, his voice one of reason, "This has been tried before." She rolled her eyes, rather moodily at his criticism and he softly chuckled, "What will you call it; the Connie Beauchamp Trauma Theatre?"

"This isn't like that, Charlie." Her taste for ambition and determination to stamp her name on the world was far from her motivation. Her children were the eternal mark she would leave on the planet. "This is about patient care."

Charlie had learnt to accept he would rarely win a debate with Connie. His dislike of the entire concept aside, if anyone could achieve such an objective, it would be her. "Okay," he submitted, and raised his hands in defeat. "Well, on _that,_ you have my full support." Relieved and satisfied, she leaned back into the chair and stroked Henry's cheek, but their years of friendship enabled Charlie to see far beyond the external. There was _more._ "How's Grace?" Her mild smile quickly fell, an indication Charlie had hit the jackpot.

"I'm worried, Charlie." She relayed that Grace hadn't been herself since her collapse, or even since her return from America. It was all _too neat._

"Do you want to hear what I think?" He queried the most ridiculous question, because of course she did; he was Charlie Fairhead, fountain of eternal wisdom. "I think that this Trauma Theatre of yours is a very pretty distraction." It was the harsh evaluation Connie didn't quite anticipate. He didn't let up, however obvious her unease. "I think you've become so accustomed to the chaos in your life that when it all stops, it scares you. You pick away at every little part, until you find the next problem to fix. When you still don't find one, you _create_ one." It frustrated him to no end that Connie resisted happiness at every crossroad; at least, that was the way it appeared to her dearest friend. He concluded his harsh assessment with some tender reassurance. "Connie, it's been a difficult year for you, for Grace. She's eleven years old and she's experienced more hardship than the everyday adult. But, at this moment in time, she is happy and healthy; you and Sam have somehow put your differences aside to be there for her and Henry; and, if I may be so bold, he deserted ten years of a lifetime built in America, not just for Henry and Grace but for _you,_ too." He prepared to leave her in contemplation, "Wish Grace happy birthday from me."

Charlie's words stuck with Connie. His evaluation didn't seem fair but, perhaps, that only served to prove his point all the more. Maybe she was blindly attracted to the anarchy in her life and _maybe_ she had blown any issue with Grace out of proportion. She was almost unconscious in contemplation, as she wandered outside and stumbled upon Ethan, equally distracted. "Dr. Hardy?"

"Mrs. Beauchamp, hello." He appeared more demure than usual, hunched on the bench as she looked down at his small frame. "I-I didn't realise you would be back to work quite so soon," he rambled, temporarily oblivious to the infant cradled in her embrace.

"No, it's a fly-by visit," she corrected, "It's Grace's birthday this weekend, Sam's been so preoccupied with work lately; and, well, truthfully, I'm relieved to see the walls are still intact in my absence."

"Only just, after my disastrous attempt at Clinical Lead." He rebuffed her sore attempt at humour and Connie scolded herself; the comment had quite literally kicked the man while he was down, the world balanced precariously on his narrow shoulders. "I'm sorry if I disappointed you." He doubted there was any _if_ involved. He had failed, on so many levels, lately. Leigh-Anne and Keegan were the latest in a long line of miserable failures.

"You did your best," Connie meekly offered. She knew first-hand, the department was an entity of its own; another child, in an odd sense.

"It's been a year since it happened," he spoke so softly that it was a miracle she heard. At first, she didn't quite understand but the fresh bouquet of flowers nearby snatched her attention and she instantly recalled the date. _Cal._

Connie shut her eyes, haunted by how screwed up their lives were back then. "Ethan, you shouldn't be here, _today_ of all days."

"This helps," he whispered, as if a plea that she not rip it away from him.

Connie nodded her head, sympathetic. She wasn't unfamiliar to the notion that heartache could be buried in a heavy workload. "Just stick with minors today," she advised, as maternal as she had been the day of Cal's funeral. She hesitated, before she decided it the appropriate time to announce her aims for the department, "Ethan, I realise that this will be of little consolation but I plan to install a Trauma Theatre here in the E.D., in fact, I've drawn up the plans and the only roadblock is the finance."

Ethan responded rather chipper to her proposal. "No surprise there." The financials behind the way the NHS ran was beyond him; he admired the steadfast nature Connie must have possessed to remain Clinical Lead and uphold the department to such an immense standard. "No, it -" he backtracked with steadier breath, "It _is_ a consolation. It means that my brother didn't die senselessly or in vain. If his death can somehow contribute to a higher standard of patient care and be part of something _more…_ then I applaud your every effort."

It was exactly the approval Connie had aimed to extract from Charlie. "Thank you."


	25. Episode Thirty-Six

Charlie's _words of wisdom_ did little to quell Connie's concern, which sky-rocketed in the weeks that followed.

 _Pre-occupation with food. Excessive exercise. Fatigue. Growth stunt. Poor concentration._ It wasn't an exhaustive list of symptoms for bulimia nervosa, but it certainly exhausted Connie and all she had to do was read the pamphlet. A recent check-up with their local G.P. confirmed her suspicion. Connie sold it as a family appointment, predominantly for Henry's benefit, and Grace was blissfully unaware of the expert trap her mother had set, until Connie requested she receive similar treatment. Grace had dropped nearly half a stone since her previous measurement; her BMI recorded below the 5th percentile, which translated as _unhealthy._ The doctor kindly dispatched Grace from the room and counselled Connie on the likelihood that Grace had developed the disorder _and_ the most desirable way to confront the condition.

Grace cried the entire drive home. Connie pulled the vehicle into the first lay-by and stroked the thinner brunette strands of hair that flowed down her back. _Hair loss._ That was another symptom commonly experienced. "Look at me, Gracie." The pre-teen shielded herself from scrutiny as much as possible. "Grace." Communication was nil. Connie surrendered and drove homeward bound.

When they arrived home, the idiom of 'worried sick' became a bleak reality for Connie. She hurled the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

"You're both very quiet," Sam declared later on, as the family of three sat down at the dinner table. His eyes floated back and forth between Connie and Grace. Neither said a word. "How was school, Grace?" The child sulkily hunched her shoulders in a neutral response. "I have to say, I'm impressed with Dr. McAllister; he's settled into the team extremely well." Sam resorted to hospital small-talk, in order to fill the unbearable and abnormal silence. The one-sided conversation soon reached its end.

"May I be excused?" Grace bravely peered at her mother for permission.

Connie surveyed the plate of food that had been poked and prodded by a fork. Grace had eaten four mouthfuls at most, and played with the rest of her food. Nevertheless, Connie nodded her head and Grace scurried upstairs, to be alone. "She must have had a bad day at school." Sam presumed, oblivious to the fact that Connie and Grace hadn't consumed a full meal between the two.

The audible noise of her bedroom door slammed shut pierced Connie in the depths of her heart but she found comfort that Grace hadn't run directly into the bathroom. She swilled the last mouthful of Bordeaux. The hours passed and the contents of the bottle disappeared, as Connie internally pondered how to strike up _the_ conversation with Sam. He had started to wash up in the kitchen, a simple action that oddly satisfied her to observe from afar; his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and skin silky with the water sheen.

"What is it?"

Connie almost choked, at his confrontational question in a father-like tone. His head didn't even turn, as he started to dry the plates. "What?"

There was an affliction in her mind, he had sensed it from the moment he returned and the atmosphere at the dinner table only added clarity to his suspicion. "Whatever it is you need to say, Connie, just say it." He requested, an undertone of defeat in his voice.

Connie narrated the earlier scene with Grace. "She has an appointment with a specialist on Wednesday and I would like you to attend."

Sam was quite visibly stunned. "Bulimia?" His mind raced a-mile-a-minute with the same questions Connie, too, had endured. _How had Grace hidden such a profound illness from them?_ Sam frowned, in disbelief, "Connie, are you sure?" The more he stopped to think, the more he connected the dots - faint, as they may have been - to the new reality Connie introduced. "Did she say why?"

Connie shook her head, as she sat down on the sofa. "She's barely said a word to me since."

"She's been so happy lately," he contested, "When we moved back to Holby - to be with you. When Henry was born…" The day she collapsed re-entered his mind, and he wondered if that had been their first alert to the condition, or if they had missed the earlier symptoms. _When had it started? Was she purging in America, too?_ There were so many questions unanswered.

"She makes herself ill, Sam." Connie started to cry; it was one disaster after another with Grace. The happy, picture-perfect childhood Connie had once envisioned for her firstborn child was blown apart from the inside-out. "It's my fault," she whispered. He refrained from response but not because he conceded; he was simply stunned into silence. Connie seized another Bordeaux from the wine rack and poured a charitable refill, before she offered to share with Sam. "Another?"

"No," Sam clambered over his words, "No, I shouldn't. I have an early start." An early start for _her_ job. "Listen, whatever this is with Grace -" he paused. "We can work it out, Connie. Don't be so hard on yourself." His advice sounded more like a plea.

"Will you talk to her?" It didn't escape Connie that Grace historically found it easier to confide in her father whenever emotionally troubled.

"Of course." Sam dutifully followed instruction and Connie had almost emptied the second bottle of wine by the time he returned from a conversation that may have appeared in-depth to Connie but, in fact, was very much one-sided. Grace had turned onto one side, her back to her father as he bombarded her with questions in the softest manner possible. "She didn't say much," he solemnly reported. "Probably for the best. We'll have plenty to discuss at the appointment and whatever follow-up therapy is recommended." One of Grace's school teachers in America had proposed he acquire a counsellor for Grace when she initially returned to school and Sam had naively brushed him aside. If he had done so, Sam pondered whether they would have detected the bulimia before it expanded into an obsession for Grace.

"Did she say when this started?"

Sam softly shook his head and sat on the chair closest to Connie, with only the corner of the table between their knees. He could sense the crazed mind-warp Connie often drove herself into whenever Grace suffered; the frenzied desire to combat the source of her pain and the catastrophic consequences her actions set off. He tenderly rubbed her shoulder, "Con, she'll be okay."

Once Sam retired to the spare room, Connie followed suit, but not before she quietly looked in on Grace. The tiny body tensed underneath the duvet and Connie sealed her eyes, determined not to cry. "Gracie?" She inched closer and perched on the the empty side of the bed. Her hand stroked Grace's head, "Sweetheart." Reluctantly, Grace rolled over and peered up at Connie. Her expression was demure, as if she readied herself for verbal punishment, like the day Connie scolded her for her adamant refusal of her epilepsy medication. "I'd like you to take these," her mother softly pleaded and offered out an open palm with two tablets. "They're vitamins," Connie explained, as Grace hesitantly accepted them and a bottle of water. Visibly relieved that Grace didn't resist the instruction, Connie heavily exhaled. "Good girl."

"I'm sorry, mummy," Grace cried, partly from shame but, also, from the distress she had caused. It was present in every facial expression, every mannerism her mother delivered. Worst of all, her mothers distress prompted an authentic wave of nausea. Grace forcefully swallowed it down.

The vulnerability of Grace pierced of her heart and Connie choked violently on her sob. "It's okay, baby." She peeled back the duvet and crawled into the bed, enveloping her daughter into her embrace. "Mummy's here," Connie whispered into her ear, "I love you so much."


	26. Episode Thirty-Seven

"Bulimia nervosa is rarely about appearance. It's about control."

Distractedly, Connie breast-fed her nine-week old son in bed, while she analytically scrutinised an online lecture about the condition. She had completed the mandatory psych rotation as a trainee doctor at KCH but her expertise in emotional disorders was far from advanced.

"In adolescents and children, especially, bulimia provides a sense of control over their life. It is a mechanism to help them cope with events that may be traumatic for them to experience. This can vary from all kinds of abuse to parent separation; _instability_ they're not prepared for -" The nasal American accent scratched on Connie's last nerve and she slammed the MacBook screen down, frustrated. It was little more than a TedTalk and she needed a real solution. She moved the machine aside and pondered the best course of action available. She could pull rank and have Grace admitted into Holby's paediatric ward, but that would oppose Sam's - _"Let her come to us."_ \- laissez-faire approach to parenthood.

By the hour Sam had returned home from the days shift, the house was immersed in darkness and his family were all fast asleep. After he had checked in on Grace, his body pulled him into Connie's bedroom, where Henry contentedly lay in the co-sleeper crib attached to Connie's side of the bed. In the empty space of the bed was a mountain of paperwork Connie had printed off, most likely with the intention she would commission him to learn more about Bulimia Nervosa. The exhaustion of a relentless, thirteen-hour shift didn't prevent him, as he rested on the unclaimed side of the bed and absorbed the written information. Red pen, in the style of Connie's hand, denoted methods of treatment for adolescents with the condition and what Sam could only presume to be her _humble_ opinion on their respective efficiency. No doubt, Connie planned to discuss each and every one at the appointment with the specialist, which was less than twelve hours ahead. He consumed his mind with the statistics, until his brain shut-down and he woke several hours later to an empty bed.

When he padded down the stairs, bare-footed, and into the kitchen, Connie addressed him coolly, "You were home late." Her manner proposed that she was unbothered to wake up with him in her bed but Sam suspected otherwise. "How was your shift?"

"Madness," he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, "Dr. Munroe collapsed."

"What?"

Sam rolled his eyes, with a sorrow shake of his head, "Don't ask."

Connie forcefully detached herself from any concern for Alicia or whatever else her staff endured in her absence. Grace had to be her main focus, at least for a while. "Sam, about Grace…" she hesitantly broached the topic, as he prepared a cup of coffee. "You and I really need to present as a united front, where she's concerned." His expression was one of cynicism about what the aforementioned _united front_ entailed, since his and Connie's views about Grace rarely coincided. She sensed his lack of enthusiasm. "She needs stability, Sam."

Before Sam could pry her plea apart, Grace returned from a walk with Simba on his lead. Within an hour or so, Audrey arrived to care for Henry and Simba, while the family of three attended a follow-up specialist appointment. For ninety minutes or more, Grace held steadfast and silent to questions like ' _Do you worry you have lost control over how much you eat?_ ' and ' _Have you recently lost more than one stone in a three-month period?_ ' All the while, she jotted down Grace's responses - or, lack thereof - and finally prompted, "Tell me in your own words, Grace. Why do _you_ think you're here today?" The specialist pushed her notepad aside and zeroed in on the adolescent.

Grace swallowed hard, the lump in her throat almost cancerous. "I make myself ill," she mumbled the words, quickly and quietly.

Grace received a teacher-like smile, the one that indicated she had selected the correct answer to the question at hand. The specialist politely excused Sam and Connie, and proceeded to conduct a physical examination. Another set of questions from the on-shift psychiatric nurse followed; they varied between Grace's relationship with food, with her parents and even with herself. Grace affably humoured every question. Almost two hours had passed, until the specialist confirmed their suspicion - "It's in my professional opinion that Grace is at serious risk of Bulimia Nervosa." - and educated Grace on the irreversible physical effect the condition would have on her body should she continue. Connie swallowed the reoccurrence of nausea, as the specialist warned Grace of the bowel issues and ulcers, amidst other manifestations. She witnessed and treated the symptoms on a daily basis, yet it was intolerable when she envisioned Grace as the patient. Still, she was thankful Grace seemed to experience the same discomfort, and prayed it would be the first step to recovery. The specialist proposed a family-based treatment to combat Grace's decline; "Research has evidenced that FBT has sustained abstinence rates for adolescents, far better than CBT or any other treatment." Connie warmed to the recommendation, when the specialist reported that an early positive response rate all but ensured a permanent, successful outcome. With a recovery plan in motion, Sam and Connie departed the centre with concrete hope.

Later that eve, with Grace and Henry asleep, Connie searched the house for Sam and discovered him seated on the doorstep. She left the front door open, in case Henry should wake, and hunkered down beside him. "I'm not convinced this will work," Sam confessed aloud, as he clutched the information booklet the specialist had provided. The staple requirement of family-based treatment was that the parents act as one. He didn't believe he and Connie were capable of that, even for Grace and her health.

"It has to; it's our only option," Connie reprimanded his skepticism. "FBT recovery rates are _double_ that of CBT -" He started to chortle, his face of amusement hidden in another direction but Connie paused and scowled, "What's so funny?"

"You," he answered, bluntly. It was her stubbornness that Sam had initially fallen in love with, and equally despised. Connie Beauchamp never settled for second best, nor accepted failure well. Ambition wasn't an alien concept to him but Connie possessed it like no other human on earth Sam had ever encountered. He became a little more serious, "How determined you are to fix what's broken."

Connie reacted with exception to his comment, "Grace isn't broken."

He exhaled, heavily, "I didn't mean it like that." Connie admired the constellations in the dark sky above. Sam observed one tear trickle down her cheek and clumsily curled an arm around her back, in the style of en embrace. "She'll be okay." Vulnerable, Connie leaned into his touch, her head on his shoulder and her hand on his lap. The moment overpowered her self-awareness and self-control, so much so that Connie found her lips travel upward to his and a sense of relief wash over her body, when Sam deepened the kiss on his own stead. "I've missed you," he mumbled, between the kiss and an involuntary moan. Connie melted, before Sam tenderly elevated her into his arms and carried her inside.


	27. Episode Thirty-Nine

"Just look at that view, Grace. It really is the best skyline in the world."

It was at Elle's advice, _of all people,_ that Connie had Grace join her for a weekend away in London. On the Friday afternoon, Connie successfully presented to the Empirical Care Foundation, in request of financial support for the new trauma theatre. By sunset, she restored her full attention to her eldest child. She had booked them into the Corinthia Hotel, reserved a table at the Rainforest Café and purchased tickets for _Wicked, the Musical._ It was the perfect itinerary for a weekend dedicated to Grace.

Bit by bit, the sun dipped behind the city builds in the distance and Grace quietly admired the horizon. Connie loosely draped an arm around her waist and recoiled from the bones that protruded beneath her ivory skin. As the sole individual responsible for Grace _and_ for an entire weekend, nonetheless, Connie simply could not steady her nerve. Recovery had been a positive experience - _thus far_ \- but her moods were erratic, at best, and Connie was fearful to leave Grace by herself for more than a split second. "You know I was born half an hour from here in Peckham," she put forward her best small talk, her smile equal in size and Grace peered over her shoulder at Connie, who rarely volunteered information about _life before Grace_ without heavy prompt. "My town," she chortled, proudly. "Except, I was desperate to leave it all behind."

Grace frowned, confused, "Why?"

Connie cleared her throat, "Well, I wanted to see the world." She wouldn't have bothered to expand, ordinarily, but a staple of Grace's family-based treatment required her and Sam to _expose_ themselves more and _be known_ to Grace. How that was supposed to cure Grace was beyond Connie but she wasn't in a position to decline. "I wanted to be a doctor and save lives. _My_ mum, your Grandmother, was a nurse for a short time and I admired her more than anyone else in the world." Connie fondly twirled Grace's chestnut curls and smiled oh-so-softly, as her mind drifted, "You're so like I remember her to be." Her own father had remarked upon the eerie resemblance, when Grace was little older than Henry. "You have her eyes… her heart." She feared Grace had inherited her mothers volatile mind, too.

"What was your mum like?" Grace quizzed, as she draped herself across the balcony rail. She possessed very hazy memories of her mother's father from infant-hood, but Connie's mother had been practically non-existent in her realm. It was as if she had been omitted from the family tree completely and, over time, Grace had learnt better than to pry into her mothers unknown.

Connie's smile wrinkled her nose. There was a shadow of the old Grace, so curious and bold. "She was kind, warm. Beautiful. Quiet, unless you made her laugh and she was the loudest person in the room. She would've adored you." Grace nestled into her mother's open embrace with the warm sensation of love. Her voice had mellowed into its soft, maternal tone and it was the same peaceful hum that had lulled Grace into an infantile sleep. Connie forced herself to open up more. "But she was sad, too." It wasn't until late adulthood that Connie became aware of the depressive episodes her mother had suffered, on-and-off, in the span of her lifetime. It seemed not even electric-shock therapy could cure Kathleen Chase of her mental affliction, and her mothers sad fate was one Connie doubted she would ever fully accept.

Goosebumps appeared, as an unseasonal coolness chilled Grace's body and she defiantly replied, "I'm not sad." She had instinctively suspected the _special_ weekend was another intervention, on her mothers part. She was annoyed to have fallen for such a blatantly obvious trap, and retreated inside the hotel suite. Her mother had never acted with a pure and simple intention.

Gently persistent, Connie verbally tip-toed around the topic, as per the advice of their therapist, who recommended she not rally too hard upon the boundaries Grace set. "It's okay to be sad, sometimes, Gracie."

"I said, I'm not sad," Grace bit, in retaliation.

"Gracie, please, I want to help." Connie persistently trailed behind Grace, who slumped onto the sofa and surfed between the available channels on the television. The volume was either low or muted, which Connie interpreted as incentive to continue, but the advice of Grace's therapist not to rally too hard upon the boundaries entered her head. The weekend in London itself was a bold rebellion to the outpatient care plan, which had been drawn up for Grace. Connie installed herself beside Grace, "We could watch _The Wizard of Oz._ " Grace was visibly surprised by her mother's unexpected U-turn. Nevertheless, she consented and they selected the children's film from the movie list. Connie was hesitant when Grace requested an order from room-service. Family-based treatment required Sam and Connie to assume full parental control of Grace's food intake. Still, Grace sulked when Connie amended the amount of food she ordered and monitored every bite of ice cream or packet of popcorn she consumed. There was bound to be a resentment backlash, which was no more than Connie had endured from Grace before. As the film drew to its finale, Connie swept wisps of hair from Grace's face. "You look tired, babe."

"Tell me more about Peckham… about your mum." Grace heeded her mother's history with deep fascination.

Connie stifled the subterranean sense of claustrophobia she experienced whenever she was forced to relive her childhood. "I didn't know her well. She was admitted into psychiatric care several times, when I was a child, but I didn't know it at the time." Connie rolled her eyes, with a shake of her head, "She cared about everyone. We didn't have much but what we did, she would share with those who were less fortunate." There was an incredible sadness in her eyes, as she concluded, "She died of cancer in 1995."

Grace contemplated all the new information, for a moment. "What was her name?"

"Kathleen, Kathleen Chase." To say her name aloud, after many years of avoidance, was bittersweet. Connie stood up and ironed out her shirt with a smooth motion of her hand. "I think I have some pictures of her somewhere. I can show you when we're home, okay?"

"But…" The wheels in Grace's brain turned, Connie could almost hear them, too. "Your surname isn't Chase."

It was the moment Connie had always denied and dreaded. "Beauchamp is my married name." Dumbfounded, Grace's mouth dropped wide open, and her mother chuckled. "I was over forty years old when I had you, Grace. I lived a whole life before you were born." The curiosity in Grace's eyes meant she didn't even need to verbally probe. " _His_ name was Michael Beauchamp. We met in med-school and married quickly after we were certified doctors." She pursed her lips, earnest in her admission, "We weren't happily married." There was very little love involved, at least on her side. Constance Chase-Beauchamp hadn't experienced _true love,_ until Grace entered her life. "We were officially divorced the same year you were born. I kept the name because it's the one people in the healthcare profession associate me with." _Beauchamp_ was a powerful name. It instilled fear in others, far better than _Chase._ "I think, it's about bedtime for you," Connie declared, and checked her watch when Grace involuntarily yawned. Reluctantly so, Grace followed instruction and wandered into the en-suite to brush her teeth.

"Why didn't you and dad ever marry?" Grace had suddenly become more talkative than she had been all weekend. It was in stark contrast from the monotonous periods of broody silence she had exhibited, especially on the drive from Holby. "You must have loved him once," she decidedly remarked, toothpaste foam in her mouth.

It wasn't the first time Grace had questioned the nature of her parents' relationship and Connie had routinely swayed her interest from the topic. She peeled back Grace's bedsheets and motioned for her to climb in, once she had washed her mouth clean. "Yes, I did… and I do," Connie matter-of-factly replied, "He's father to both of my children." Grace was evidently displeased with the response but allowed her mother to tuck her into bed and fondly kiss her forehead, "Sweet dreams, baby. I love you."

"Love you, too," Grace whispered, faintly.

Connie followed suit and retired to her respective bed, in the master bedroom of the hotel suite. After an hour had passed, she had almost drifted into a deep sleep, when the whir of the en-suite fan alerted her brain to the wretch-like sounds from the same direction. Her naturally protective instinct primed her to kick the door down and wrench Grace from what had become her sacred ritual, but the specialist had also advised the direct opposite of physical intervention should Grace relapse into her habit. "Gracie," she announced her presence with a timid knock and the door creaked open, to reveal Grace hunched over the toilet, pale and withdrawn. Her hair had fallen from the order of plaits and curtained her face like a thin veil, and yet Connie could still see her eyes, hollow and sunken. She lowered to her knees and affectionately collected Grace's hair into a makeshift ponytail with one hand, while the other rubbed her back, "It's okay, you're okay," she quietly murmured, as Grace hurled up the contents of her stomach. It was painfully obvious her recovery was miles from the end.


	28. Episode Forty-One

Ruby Spark didn't join the paramedic profession to become popular - _thank God,_ because her first day at Holby City Hospital had rendered her the exact opposite. Worst of all, she had already clashed with the department's Clinical Lead. As Connie Beauchamp reprimanded her for the exceptional failure, Ruby wished she had heeded her fellow paramedics' omen - _"The devil wears Louboutins."_ \- and wondered why she still found herself in trouble, especially when she accorded her every action with the rulebook.

"I want the incident report on my desk, by the end of the shift." Connie sternly dismissed the newest paramedic, F1 and Alicia from her office. Alex Broadhurst quickly followed suit and Connie welcomed her first break, since she started her twelve-hour shift, which was the first one back from maternity leave. The latest C.E.O., Abby Tate, had permitted Sam and Connie to _share_ the position of Clinical Lead, at Serena Campbell's behest, which allowed Connie to steadily return to the department full-time. While Connie was less than thrilled with the idea, it meant she and Sam were able to sustainably co-parent their children, and oversee Grace's recovery and treatment at home. It also provided her the opportunity to reacquaint herself with her staff team, the dynamics of which had transformed dramatically in her absence. Little behaviours did not slip by unnoticed; Alicia repeatedly snapped at Bea Kinsella, whilst she avoided Eddie McAllister as if her life depended on it; Rash followed one of the female porters around, like a lovesick puppy; _and_ Jacob and Sam Nicholls were in the midst of what Connie could only describe as a flirtation. It was all very odd.

"Good to have you back, Mrs. B.," Noel happily chirped, for what must have been the hundredth time in five hours, when Connie bypassed the reception desk. She purposely avoided his well-intentioned attempt to present her with one of his stickers, to celebrate the NHS' 70th birthday.

Charlie appeared, like God from the heavens above, and certainly with a master-like smile on his face. He held the kind of smile that insinuated he could read her mind; and the truth was, he probably could. "Just another day in paradise," Charlie remarked, as they trailed the circuit of the department. It was her sixth lap of the shift, in a rather predictable move to have her return noticed by the staff team. "How are you?"

Connie's voice was so low, he could barely understand the words. "This is the first time in my life I have ever felt old, Charlie, I mean really _old._ "

Charlie couldn't conceal his amusement, "Well, if you will have another child so late in life." Her head snapped abruptly in his direction and he comically surrendered, his hands raised, "A joke." Her exhaustion translated into uncharacteristic sensitivity, clearly. "How's Grace?" Connie revered very few people but Charlie Fairhead was one of them and, as such, had won entry into her inner-circle. He and Duffy were the only two individuals in the hospital that she and Sam had confided Grace's poor health.

"She's on the mend," she replied, determined to maintain a positive attitude. Connie warily monitored the members of staff who walked by and had any opportunity to eavesdrop. "She holds one full meal down a day and she's on the way to a normal BMI."

"That's brilliant news," Charlie commended, somewhat relieved that Connie hadn't backtracked into her own method of self-destruction. The Beauchamp-Strachan family had come leaps and bounds, "Listen, whenever Grace is ready for visitors, Duffy and I would love to stop by for dinner with the four of you." Years in his profession informed Charlie that a bulimic patient would be a thousand times more self-conscious to eat in front of others, especially when in recovery-mode.

Connie squeezed his hand, "Thank you. I'd like that." _God Bless, Charlie Fairhead._ He and the hospital were the one true sense of normalcy Connie retained, before she returned home to the madhouse of dirty nappies and a strict feed routine for both her children. "There isn't much left, sweetheart." Several hours onward, Connie had driven home and sat down at the dinner table to feed Grace, who contorted her face in pain at every mouthful. At her recovery speed, Henry would become more accustomed to solid foods first. "One more," she implored, when Grace turned her head away from the last bite. "Come on, Gracie." The adolescent repelled any further attempt to move the spoon toward her mouth and her mother submitted defeat. After all, the worst was yet to come - she and Sam were under precise instruction to track Grace's every movement after each mealtime, and _that_ was when Grace exhibited her resentment the most.

"That's the most she's eaten all day," Sam remarked, once Grace attuned her attention to the television screen, and pointedly placed a plateful on the table in front of Connie. "Your turn." It didn't escape him that Connie's own nutritional habits had fallen out the window, in her efforts to restore Grace to full health. Connie reluctantly tucked in. "How was your first day back?"

She released a soft exhale and tilted her head, "Informative." In spite of all else that had occurred, it pleased Connie to note how untouched her office had remained while Sam stepped in as Clinical Lead. Connie updated Sam on the latest occurrences in the E.D. and discussed the odd dynamics witnessed between their team. At the revelation of how much _more_ Sam had noticed, Connie was forced to admit how distracted she had been by the family therapy session the three of them were due to attend. They discussed the matter further once Grace had retied to her bedroom and Henry settled, content in his crib. "What if it doesn't help?" Connie raised her concern. She _hated_ the process of therapy with a passion. Connie Beauchamp didn't participate in sit-down discussion or so-called _talking therapies_ \- she ran.

"Connie, we can't write it off before we've even tried," Sam played the voice of reason well. He had personally vowed to cooperate in every step of whatever was deemed necessary to help Grace on the road to recovery. "She probably has a lot bottled up, about the accident, about us -"

"What about _us_?"

"Connie," he confronted her wistful denial of how deep an effect their relationship had on their child. "She's confused," he softly provided rationale and Connie reluctantly conceded with a nod of her head. "If we're not at each others throats, it's only because we're oceans apart. Yet, here we are under the same roof with another baby in the latest episode of _Happy Families._ "

"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm, Mr. Strachan?" Connie responded playfully to his tone, which had been sharper than intended.

"Certainly not, Mrs. Beauchamp," he acted the ham, relieved that every conversation didn't result in battle. In fact, ever since their porch kiss, he and Connie had behaved impeccably toward one another and their pretence of happily-ever-after didn't feel like total make-believe. They shared a small but humoured smile.

Connie stifled a yawn, "Well, it will have to be a topic for another day." A discussion about their historically-troubled relationship would require hours of intense focus and extreme patience, neither of which Connie currently possessed. "Sleep well."


	29. Episode Forty-Three

"Welcome to the twenty-first century; every major trauma centre needs a dedicated state of the art trauma theatre with immediate access to a multi-disciplinary team of senior clinicians and that is what we will have."

It didn't evade Connie how difficult the balance between her personal and professional life seemed to be. When one succeeded, the other inevitably failed… More often than not, it was her career that celebrated success and the trauma theatre was a direct example. Complications aside, the first patient on the table had received the ultimate care and Connie revelled in pride. Glory was hers - even Dylan and Elle seemed mildly impressed. It was the exact kind of win Connie needed to prove she would always be the best in the business; little did she realise that the only individual she needed to convince was herself.

A slow-clap serenaded her departure from the department, as she clocked-off her shift, and Sam appeared from behind. "Well done, Mrs. Beauchamp; I hear your shiny new trauma theatre was put to use today _and_ saved the life of a patient." Connie twisted her lips, in a weak attempt to appear humbled, and her head lowered in appreciation.

"Thank you very much." A faint frown appeared on her forehead, "Shouldn't you be at home?"

"Mum offered to baby-sit Henry with Grace. You and I have dinner reservations," he informed Connie ever-so-casually and walked her toward his parked vehicle. "You've worked so hard lately; Grace and I decided you deserved some R & R." She very visibly hesitated. At the advice of Grace's recovery specialist, they followed a strict routine and _never_ diverted from the plan - either Sam or Connie collected Grace from school, the other returned from work and the family ate dinner with everyone present. "Come on, Connie," his playful nature swayed her attitude and Connie flashed him a coy smile. "We can celebrate. A little music and a little wine…"

She rolled her eyes, "Fine."

Within twenty minutes, Sam had driven to an ostentatious, if overpriced, restaurant and Connie was privately relieved she had showered at the end of her shift, due to her impromptu decision to scrub-in. Her hair had started to curl, a throwback to the earlier days of their romance. Once they arrived, Connie excused herself and promptly styled it back into a low-clipped bun. As she examined the dark circles underneath her eyes, she wondered why she cared. Whenever she labelled her relationship with Sam Strachan, it invariably seemed to fall apart.

It was an hour or so of Chardonnay and small-talk. Sam probed Connie for details about her cinema date with Grace when the two attended the premiere of _Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again._ Connie readily reported that Grace had eaten and held down a small tub of popcorn. They boasted to one another about the moments they shared with their infant son, who developed on a daily basis - his latest fascination was to kick like a professional football player whenever Sam or Connie tried to put a new nappy on. Giddy on fine wine, the difficulties of the past year melted away until Sam posed his question; "Why did you keep Henry from me?" The carefree cloud Connie was on started a rapid descent. He impishly raised his hands from the table in a show of peace. He didn't intend to cause a scene, which was why he had addressed his curiosity in a public environment and far from their children, in case Connie did explode.

"I told you… I didn't know how to tell you. You were with Emma -"

"I know what you _told_ me but we both know that was a lie." His tone was more abrasive than intended, as usual. "Did you really think you could keep him hidden from me forever?" It was a conversation they should have had months before Henry arrived but there always seemed to be _another_ more important complication to address first.

Connie appeared to bite her lip, as if she were determined to hold back - an action that only occurred when the truth threatened to reveal itself. She could barely look Sam in the eye. "Do you remember you what you said to me; on the day of Elle's trial, after Grace had her first seizure?" Sam searched his memory for whatever cruel, distasteful comment he could have made in fear and fury under duress but drew blank. "You said I was blinkered, stuck in my own bitterness." How intently she listened and remembered disturbed Sam in his very core. He didn't think she ever really heard him; he didn't think his words ever really mattered to Connie. "When you left for America -" her voice unexpectedly faltered, an ache in her chest. To lose Grace had cut her deep, but it was minor compared to the heartache caused, after she had foolishly waited outside his flat with triple chocolate muffins for three in hand. It was easy to interpret her as the cruel one in their relationship but Sam had surpassed her ability to deceive. "I wasn't blinkered, Sam. I was _blinded_ by the loss of Grace. You let me believe that the three of us would be a family and then you left the country without a word or explanation." She repelled backward, as if to retreat into herself because she had exposed too much.

"Connie…"

A lump developed in his throat, which prevented any valid response and Connie distractedly folded the napkin on her lap, with an all-too-pleasant smile plastered onto her face. "Well, it doesn't much matter anymore. Grace is back, so are you." She retained her seriousness, "And, if it's any consolation, I am truly sorry for what I did; it was reprehensible." Genuinely ashamed, Connie shook her head, "You are an _extraordinary_ father and Henry and Grace are lucky to have you in their lives."

Her fearless expression of unconditional remorse amazed him. Gracefully, Sam nodded, "Thank you."

The drive home was painfully silent. Connie stared out the window at the houses they drove by, while Sam integrally questioned why he had failed to explain his actions, or - at the very least - request absolution. After all, the repercussions of his decision to relocate Grace had invariably contributed to her current state of mind. "This was a wonderful surprise, Sam," Connie complimented him, when they returned home. She hadn't realised how desperately she needed - and deserved - a few hours of TLC. "Thank you."

"I ran away because I was scared," Sam fumbled over the words he rushed to verbalise and Connie frowned, bewildered. She quickly understood Sam had reversed to the earlier discussion and stifled her natural reaction to dismiss him. His shoulders were hunched and his appearance reverted to the impulsive junior doctor so easily intimidated, "I have run away from commitment at every turn. It's all I've ever known."

"Sam -"

"Connie, you don't like to be vulnerable and neither do I." Sam shoved his hands deep into their respective trouser pocket, "But that's exactly how you make me feel. After that accident, I wanted so much to believe we could make this family work." Connie shut her eyes, still able to smell the fire of the car explosion and feel the ache in her chest when she believed Grace had been trapped inside. "But then I remembered all the ways we stabbed each other in the heart, all the times we double-crossed one another and I acted out of fear - that's why I left. I wondered every day whether I should have stayed. You are the one woman I can't escape, Connie Beauchamp," he injected humour into his tone but he remained ever-serious. "I love you." Connie visibly shook off his comment with smile. "I do, and I always have."

Sam compelled her body toward his and Connie quivered at the taste of his lips, "Sam…"

"I don't want to run anymore," he whispered his confession, as he led Connie inside the darkened house and up the stairs to her bedroom.


	30. Episode Forty-Four

"This is a safe space, Grace."

It didn't _feel_ safe - not for Connie, at least. The female therapist tilted her head, ever-so-softly, her hands peacefully clasped on her lap and a warm smile settled on her lips when she addressed Grace. There was a coolness in her eyes when they averted to Connie, however, and Connie could only assume it was fuelled by blame; w _hat had this child's mother done that was so horrific, that it led her to starve herself?_ She certainly didn't scrutinise Sam with the same lack of objectivity - unless it was Connie's paranoia, which was more than likely in the current circumstance.

The therapist posed the question a second time; "Why do _you_ think you make yourself ill?" It was the Beauchamp-Strachan family's first session and there was apparently no honeymoon period in treatment. Connie's body visibly stiffened, as Grace contemplated a response.

The hour-session passed quickly for everyone but Connie. Grace discussed Henry and New York. She disclosed that her best friend at school had introduced her to _the cleanse._ Connie experienced her own nausea, when Grace explained how her panic attacks had ceased once she started to cleanse herself, too. She overloaded her body with nutrition, only to hurl it all out and Grace couldn't find a word desirable enough to describe the pleasure, or the incredible sense of relief it served her mind. The end of the session finally arrived, when the therapist delicately checked her wrist-watch and smiled, "Thank you for your honesty, Grace. You can stop there." The adolescent meekly smiled back, somewhat disappointed that her disclosure had been discontinued, until the next session.

When they arrived home, Grace hastily entered the house and promptly shut herself in her bedroom. At least three hours passed before Sam built up the bravado to converse with Connie. He found her in the kitchen, about to do battle with the school lunch she had prepared for Grace in advance. It was a hysterically sad picture - Connie Beauchamp, world-renowned cardio-thoracic surgeon, defeated _by clingfilm._ "Connie."

"Sam, please." Connie faintly murmured, "I would really like to sulk in peace."

He frowned, frankly confused as to why she was so upset. Grace had communicated well, especially for the first session, and the therapist was confident of imminent improvement. "Well, would I be remiss to ask why?"

Connie placed both palms onto the kitchen surface and brashly looked him in the eye. "I wasn't aware I needed your permission." His frown developed into a scowl, bewildered. "Was I the only one of us who bothered to listen to what Grace said in that room?" She invariably raised her voice, "About how it didn't matter that her new baby brother stole all of our attention because she never really had our attention in the first place; or how much she liked New York because Emma always had the time to spend, even if you didn't." They weren't Grace's words verbatim _but_ they were pretty close and, as Connie recited them back to Sam, he comprehended how hurtful they must have been to her ears. "What about how _confused_ she was to find out about Henry?" That had actually been the therapists comment but the kicker was that Grace didn't make any effort to dispute the assumption. It seemed that whatever route they examined, it was Connie's actions that propelled Grace into a depressive spiral - it was their very own theatrical production of _Mommie Dearest._

Sam didn't shy away from her fury and curled his arms around her waist, his hands interlinked at the small of her back. "I'm sorry - I'm the one to blame. I never should have taken her to America without your permission," he whole-heartedly conceded. "Maybe if we had stayed here, none of this would have happened. We could have been a family this past year -"

The flicker of a shadow attracted her attention and Connie shuffled from his embrace. "Grace."

Blood drained from Sam's face, as his head turned to discover Grace stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "You told me it was mum's idea," she dismissed her mother's soft call, her thunderous expression meant only for Sam. "That she said New York would be the best place for me."

"Gracie, I -"

"You _lied,_ " she fired back, before her father could defend himself. He was visibly panicked and unfamiliar with her wrath - so often, it was Connie who received the brunt of it. Grace clenched her fists and calmly delivered a painful statement, "I _hate_ you."

"Leave her, Sam," Connie advised, as Grace fled in the direction of her bedroom and his instinct was to follow behind. Connie had experienced those three painful words more than once in the midst of yet another temper tantrum, and she had learnt the hard way it best to remain at a safe distance until Grace had cooled off. Connie sympathetically rubbed his arm, "Give her time to calm down."

After an hour had passed - an episode of _Luther_ on the BBC iPlayer which neither Sam or Connie paid very much attention to - Connie patted his restless knee and rose to her feet. "I'll check on Grace." She padded into the hall and noticed Simba determinedly scratch at the front door with his puppy-howl. "You've had your walk already, silly boy," she whined back at the pet, who continued to paw the carpet. Connie rolled her eyes, as she mounted the stairs and knocked at the door which had previously been slammed shut. "Grace." Connie hesitantly knocked for a second time. "Grace, can I come in?" There was radio silence, as expected. "Grace," she heavily exhaled, as she turned the handle and entered. It was an empty room, abandoned. "Gracie?" Panic quickly rose from her chest and into her voice, as she scoured the upstairs of her home and prayed for a response left unreceived. "Sam," Connie sprinted back down the stairs, "Grace isn't in her room."

"What?"

While he verified Grace's absence with his own eyes, Connie clasped one hand below her throat. It felt as if all of the air had been sucked from the atmosphere, or maybe she had lost the ability to breath. Sam bolted back down the stairs and laid eyes upon Simba, who was like stalwart attached to the front door; at the realisation that Grace had snuck out, Connie's brain clicked into action. "If she has her phone then I should be able to track her location," she darted for her own iPhone and fumbled hands fired up the app she had downloaded as a precaution. A pink dot on the map indicated Grace had abandoned her iPhone at home. "My God, she could be _anywhere._ " The fear drove Connie to throw on her black leather jacket and she hurried outside onto the drive.

"Connie," Sam half-protested, as she removed the protection sheet from her cherished and under-utilised motorbike.

"No, Sam, I'll find her on my own." Connie dismissively batted his hand away and clipped her helmet on with limited fuss. The speed of two wheels would allow her to reach Grace quicker than four and there was an additional helmet tucked in the top case. "You need to stay here, in case she comes back." Before Sam could implore Connie to be careful, she revved into the east, her destination unknown...


End file.
